


I got trouble in mind

by blackkat



Series: more of my bad decisions Star Wars edition [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Biting, Competence Kink, Enemies to Lovers, Families of Choice, Force-Sensitive Han Solo, Getting Together, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Marking, Matchmaking, Meddling Kids, Overstimulation, Sith Chrysalides, light Boba Fett/Han Solo of the puppy crush variety
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Boba attempts to set his father up with someone interesting. It would probably go a lot smoother if that someone wasn't a Jedi. And if there weren't monsters all around the town that were about to make themselves a problem.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Han Solo, Boba Fett & Jango Fett, Boba Fett & Jon Antilles, Han Solo & Jon Antilles, Jango Fett/Jon Antilles
Series: more of my bad decisions Star Wars edition [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763653
Comments: 235
Kudos: 1144
Collections: Star Wars Alternate Universes





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Jango/Jon, with Boba trying to set them up, because he saw Jon do something really cool, or something along those lines, and he decided Jon would make an excellent second parent.

“Dad?” Boba asks, in that faux-casual, distracted tone that makes a chill slide down Jango's spine. “Can Jedi teleport?”

“What,” Jango says, absolutely bewildered as to where this is coming from.

Boba glances up from his datapad, giving Jango a judgmental look. “Jedi,” he repeats. “Can they teleport?”

Acceptable questions regarding Jedi on the Slave I are generally relegated to _how do I kill them_ and _how do I avoid them_ , and Jango eyes his son a little warily, setting his blaster down. “If they could teleport we’d have a hell of a lot more problems,” he says warily. “Why? You listening to spacer tales again?”

Boba looks down, but not quickly enough to hide the gleam in his eyes that _promises_ Jango is going to regret something before the day is up. “Of course not,” he scoffs, but Jango _knows_ his son. Something prompted this, and something is going to come of it.

Jango just wishes he knew what. Mostly so he could figure out which way to duck.

“You see something in town?” he asks, pointed, but Boba doesn’t even bother to glance up again.

“In this town?” he says, disgusted. “Of course not.”

It’s a reasonable statement; the town on this little backwater consists of two rival cantinas on either end of a dusty strip, a ramshackle collection of houses and businesses teetering on their stilts, too many smugglers, and hell of a lot of smelly swamp grass. Jango hasn’t had dry boots since they landed here, and the locals are both unpleasant and heavily armed, to put it mildly. Nothing much seems to happen, in the same way that nothing much seems to happen with a thermal grenade that has the pin halfway pulled out, and Jango's not overly optimistic that he can manage to keep far enough under the radar to maintain the unexploded sort of status quo here. He’s got a reputation, after all.

That doesn’t mean Boba didn’t manage to find trouble _somewhere_. Jango has faith in his son. Particularly in his son’s ability to give him grey hairs before his time.

He never gave Jaster _nearly_ this many problems. He’s sure of it.

Still, Boba's not talking, and Jango isn't going to be able to make him, so he grudgingly picks up his blaster and cleaning kit again. “Stay out of trouble,” he warns darkly. “I can't afford to lose this bounty if I want to show my face anywhere off Kamino, got it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Boba says without looking up, and Jango rolls his eyes so hard they hurt and leaves him to whatever he’s plotting.

“Hey,” a voice says pointedly. “You're a Jedi, right?”

Jon blinks, entirely caught off guard at being addressed, and leans over the side of the branch he’s sitting on to look down the trunk of the twisted swamp tree. There's a kid on the end of the rickety pier, staring up at him, and Jon considers him for a moment, considers the lightsaber he’s dismantling to get the mud out of the inner casing, and says honestly, “Yes.”

The boy, who can't be more than ten, peers up at him for a moment, nose wrinkling, and then asks, “How’d you even get up there? There aren’t any branches, and the ground’s all swamp down here.”

Jon studies the boy for a moment, weighing his options, but there's no sense of threat, not even a flicker of ulterior motive in the boy’s mind. Just curiosity, sharp-edged, and—

Well. Jon doesn’t tend to interact with a lot of people, but children are always the easiest.

“Did you want to come up?” he asks quietly, and the boy blinks, then grins.

“Yeah,” he says. “Do I need to get my jetpack?”

A little amused, Jon shakes his head, then raises a hand. It’s the work of a moment to feel the flow of the Force through the tree beneath, and with a touch of will, a trace of intent, he bends it. The limb beside his shifts, curls, dips like a bow, and comes to a stop a meter from the dock.

“If you jump, I’ll hold you steady,” Jon says, but the boy is already moving. He takes two running steps without so much as a hesitation, clears the gap with a flying leap, and scrambles up as Jon lets the branch lift, the tree straightening back up to its former position. There's a moment of creaking as it settles, sways, and then the limbs still. The boy sits up straight, looking up the tree with faintly wide eyes, and then drops his gaze to Jon.

“Jedi can _do_ that?” he demands.

“Some,” Jon allows, bemused. He eyes the boy as he slides closer, steady on the limb, and then says, “You're not a local.”

“The lack of webbed feet gave it away?” the boy asks sarcastically.

Jon snorts and turns back to his lightsaber, finally finding the catch that opens the interior mechanisms. “You don’t like mud,” he says, and tugs. The casing opens, letting out a trickle of slime, and he grimaces. A moment of concentration sends the whole hilt scattering into pieces, and they rise into the air, swirling around him in a cloud of Brylark bark and metal. The green crystal is the most grime-covered part of the whole mess, and Jon sighs a little, plucking it out of the air and fishing a polishing cloth out of his belt pouches.

The boy is watching him closely, intrigued, and he slides closer still as Jon starts cleaning the mud off the kyber crystal. “How the hell did you get it that dirty?” he asks, wrinkling his nose.

“There are creatures in the swamp that I've been fighting,” Jon says. Fay was the one to alert him to the presence of chrysalides on this planet, and he managed to track them from the ancient Sith laboratory they’d escaped from to here. He’s still missing some, though, going by how many growth chambers had cracked in the recent earthquake. Two vornskrs, probably, and at least one rancor. A gundark and a katarn as well, judging by the shape of the cocoons. Maybe a war worm, too, if he’s particularly unlucky. “One threw me into a deep spot.”

“Oh.” The boy frowns, then asks, “That’s a kyber crystal, right? Can I see it?”

Jon tosses it to him without pause. He’s the furthest thing from helpless without his lightsaber, and the kid’s curiosity is bright, honest. He catches it easily, then holds it up to the light, squinting at it, and Jon goes back to his disassembled lightsaber, working his way through cleaning the different parts.

The silence stretches for a few moments, and Jon knows the boy is watching him, can feel the weight of his gaze. He doesn’t look up, though, doesn’t waver; if the boy wants to leap down and run, that’s fine. Jon will get his crystal back later. Dark Woman made sure he could survive practically anything without his lightsaber, and it won't be the first time Jon has had to.

“I saw you,” the boy says finally. “When you reappeared in that alley. That was teleporting, right?”

Jon grimaces a little, hidden by his hood. He doesn’t _like_ teleporting, but the katarn he’d been hunting had dragged him deep into the swamp, hurled them both over the edge of the cliff in its death throes. Potentially he could have caught himself at the bottom, but then he would have had to trek all the way back, exhausted and soggy, and he’d decided to suffer through the teleportation, in the face of that.

“Some Jedi can do that, too,” he confirms, and lets go of the last piece of his lightsaber. Glancing over, he asks, “Done with that?”

The boy nods, holding the crystal out, and Jon lets it rise into the air, swirl back into the mess of pieces. Takes a breath, closes his eyes, and spreads his fingers as he feels for the threads of the Force that the lightsaber wants to follow. He doesn’t fight them, but lets them flow, shift, settle, and with a whirl of bright silver metal and golden-brown bark, the lightsaber twists itself back together, shutting the green crystal away.

There's a moment of silence, and then the boy laughs, leaning forward on his branch. “That’s the coolest way to clean a weapon,” he says.

Jon smiles a little, then holds out a hand. The lightsaber drops into his palm, and he clips it to his belt, then reaches up, folding his hood back. Some children flinch away from the scars, but this one doesn’t, just looks at him curiously, with an edge of enthusiasm that lightens something in Jon's chest.

“I'm Jon Antilles,” he says, and bows to the boy. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

The boy rolls his eyes, but he can't completely hide the flicker of pleasure that rises. “I'm Boba,” he says, and tips his head, gaze a little too sharp. “Knight Antilles?”

“Master,” Jon allows. Studies Boba again for a moment, and it’s more instinct than anything tangible that makes him say, “You're Mandalorian.”

Boba twitches back, going tense like he’s calculating the best way to leap for the dock. When Jon very deliberately doesn’t move, though, he pauses, eyes narrowing, and demands, “How do you know that?”

Jon looks away, considering it, and shifts to put his back against the trunk. He draws a knee up, letting his other foot dangle off the branch, and says, as he puts the pieces he hadn’t consciously registered together, “There's a Mandalorian ship in the port. You're not a local, and you know about Jedi. You're familiar with weapons, if you clean them frequently, and you're trained.” The way he moves gives that away, at the very least, as does the lack of fear when Jon mentioned creatures in the swamp.

“Oh,” Boba says, and relaxes again. He looks thoughtful. “You seem kind of dumb, but you're not, are you?”

Jon rolls his eyes, but doesn’t bother to protest. “Did you want something?” he asks, raising a brow.

“To see if you’d teleport again,” Boba says shamelessly, and slides down the branch. Obligingly, Jon makes the tree bend close to the dock, and he leaps off, landing in a crouch on the warped planks. When he straightens again, he’s grinning. “The tree thing is cool too, though.”

With a snort, Jon shifts, crossing his legs beneath himself. “Be careful in the swamp,” is all he says. “There are mutated vornskrs.”

Boba pauses, then pulls a face. “Yuck.”

Solemnly, Jon inclines his head in agreement, then flips his hood up.

With a frown, Boba steps back, then says, “You're not _that_ ugly. Why do you always hide your face?”

Children, Jon thinks wryly, are all menaces. “The scars scare people off,” he says quietly, and pointedly curls his hands together in a ring above his lap, closing his eyes. He couldn’t more obviously be meditating if he raised a flashing sign behind himself, and he hears Boba let out an exasperated huff, then stalk away, the boards of the dock squeaking under his feet.

One breaks with a crack halfway down, and Boba's foot slips through as he yelps. Obligingly, Jon catches him with the Force, pulling him back up to his feet, and says mildly, “Careful.”

There's a suspicious pause, and Boba says, “Thanks.”

Jon keeps his peace, and even if he’ll probably never see Boba again, he’s content with the idea that one Mandalorian, at least, won't grow up thinking all Jedi are traitorous monsters.

Jango doesn’t often like to resort to dialogue normally found in bad frontier holos meant for Core crowds who will never make it past Metellos in their explorations of the galaxy, but sometimes the triteness fits. This, it seems, is one of those cases.

This town’s not very big. It’s _definitely_ not big enough for both Jango and a _Jedi_. One of them’s going to have to beat it, and Jango's waiting for a bounty. It’s not going to be him.

Unfortunately, there isn't exactly going to be a lot of local support in his quest to dump the freak in the swamp and be done with it. All the business owners he talks to are more or less bemused by the Jedi's presence, like he’s a nexu that wandered into their town and started sleeping in the sun and purring a lot. Jango hears a few mentions of things in the swamp, eating the locals, and the Jedi bringing back heads, but most of them seem preoccupied by the fact that he looks like a hobo and sleeps in trees and bows to everyone in town like they're Coruscanti diplomats on assignment. _Odd_ , seems to be the assessment, and Jango thinks of the fancy, put-together bastard who led the Jedi forces on Galidraan and has to grit his teeth.

The Jedi of the Order seem to come in a lot of flavors. At the very least, this one seems to be more _wandering monk_ than _poncy shithead_ , but he’ll probably show his true colors soon enough. They always do.

As far as the people of the moon are concerned, the Jedi's a interesting conversation piece, especially since he’s not here to arrest smugglers or nose in on business. It would be a hell of a lot easier to turn them against him if he _was_ , but Jango chooses to be grateful that his target won't go scurrying for the nearest bolt-hole the second he turns up. He’s already tracked the woodrat shithead across six systems, and he’s getting tired of it.

Neither of the cantinas in town are _nice_ , but Jango stakes out the one closest to what passes for a spaceport around here, and it’s mildly more pleasant than some he’s been in over the years, so there's at least that. The bartender looks like she’s seen more than enough bounty hunters come through for her to be sick of them, and the blaster rifle she keeps in plain view on the bar says she knows how to handle herself, so Jango doesn’t bother making a fuss, just tucks himself away in the corner to wait for his target and nurse a drink while Boba pokes around the group of Corellian smugglers who seem to be laying low in the town.

It keeps him out of trouble, and he’s got a blaster with him, so Jango isn't particularly fussed. Boba's sensible. Most of the time. More or less.

Jango closes his eyes and sighs a little, pressing the cool glass to his temple. He _definitely_ never gave Jaster this many problems.

Before he can contemplate that further—not that he _will_ , because it’s the truth and he’s absolutely sure of that—the door creaks open, letting in a whirl of humid air that reeks of the deep swamps. Jango opens his eyes, and immediately goes stiff.

The Jedi is in the doorway, draped in a green-brown cloak that conceals him almost completely. The hood is pulled up, and he has his hands folded into the sleeves, and—

 _Looks like a hobo_ was the most common description Jango got, when he was asking around, and he can see why. The robe is patched, and the pants he can see beneath it are patched, and there are worn places that look like they're in need of it. The hem is a little ragged, and instead of the fancy cream-colored tunics most Jedi wander around in, this one’s wearing dark brown that almost manages to hide the fact that it’s looking a little threadbare.

Most of the people around here have never seen a Jedi before, and never will after this. The moon’s firmly Outer Rim territory, and Jedi don’t exactly spend a lot of time in the Rim. As far as their first glimpse of a member of the famed Jedi Order goes, this one’s a little underwhelming.

Straightening, the bartender blinks, then says, “Master Jedi. Here for a drink?”

The Jedi, Jango thinks, mostly looks bemused to be in an actual building, as if he’s not entirely sure why he’s here either. But at the bartender’s words, he inclines his head and steps in fully, letting the door swing shut behind him. His robe is mud-splattered on the bottom, and there's something darker mixed in the with the paler dirt of the swamp. Blood, maybe, Jango assumes, eyeing it. He carefully shifts, giving himself a clear line to draw and fire his blaster—

The Jedi turns his head, and pale eyes are suddenly fixed on Jango. Not hostile, not even wary, but most definitely one predator acknowledging another in a small space. It makes the hair on Jango's neck prickle, and he narrows his eyes, braces himself for the _Jedi-killer_ remarks—

“None of that now,” the bartender says sharply, and reaches for her blaster. “Take it to Jee’s cantina if you want to fight, but not in _my_ establishment.”

Unhurried, unconcerned, the Jedi turns away, takes another step in and bows to her. “Forgive me,” he says, low and a little rough. “I can leave—”

The bartender eyes him, then gives Jango a narrow look. He raises his hands, an attempt at innocence that she clearly doesn’t buy, but she seems content that his hands are away from his blaster and nods. “You're fine, Master Jedi,” she says, maybe a little softer than Jango thinks is warranted. Like she’s calming a spooked horse, maybe. “As long as there's no trouble, you're welcome here. Come have a drink.”

The Jedi gives Jango his back, which is either a show of gross overconfidence or an indication that Jango's going to have a hell of a fight on his hands if he decides to pick this one. He narrows his eyes at the man’s back, but the Jedi doesn’t turn, simply accepts the glass the barkeep hands him and passes over a credit chip in return, then takes himself off into a shadowy corner and hunkers down at a table. He doesn’t remove his hood, and he doesn’t look around, and he seems entirely content to just sit there and contemplate the eternal mysteries of the rotgut they serve here, or whatever it is Jedi do instead of getting drunk like normal people.

Jango weighs his options for a long, long span of minutes, but—

Well. Jedi don’t tend to linger places without a reason, and if the monsters in the swamp are bad enough that the Order deigned to dispatch a Jedi to deal with them, it’s something he wants to know about.

Rising from his seat, he stalks across the room, aware of the barkeep’s wary gaze on him. The Jedi must know he’s coming—Jango isn't bothering to be subtle—but he doesn’t so much as glance up, even when Jango kicks out the chair across from him and throws himself down into it.

“You're a long way from Coruscant,” he says, halfway to a challenge.

There's a long pause, and then the Jedi finally raises his head. It’s hard to see any details of his face beneath the drape of the hood, but Jango can make out a sharp nose that has definitely been broken before, a mouth with a scar that edges over the lower lip. His hands are scarred, too, where they're curled around his drink. That makes Jango a hell of a lot more inclined to believe he’s dangerous, honestly.

“I'm not from Coruscant,” the Jedi says after a moment, and lifts his glass, taking his first sip of his drink. Doesn’t wince, even though what they serve here could strip paint, but sets it down again and offers, “You're a long way from Mandalore.”

Jango smiles, and it’s not kind. “I'm not from Mandalore.”

Instead of pressing, though, the Jedi just snorts softly, tips his glass at Jango, and takes another sip.

Jango lets the silence stretch as long as he physically can, but eventually it weighs too heavily, and he leans back in his chair, drops his muddy boots on the chair right next to the Jedi and makes it as obnoxious as possible when he crosses them. The Jedi doesn’t even glance down, doesn’t give any sort of reaction, and Jango wants to narrow his eyes. All the Jedi he’s run into are terribly cultured and dignified and graceful, and they react to Jango's rudeness like he’s a puppy chewing on their boots, which makes it especially satisfying to find a spot to snipe them from later. This one seems entirely unbothered, though, and he just takes another sip of his rotgut as Jango waits for a reaction.

When it becomes clear there isn't going to be one, Jango lets out an irritated breath, recrosses his boots, and says, “Monsters in the swamp?”

There's a pause, and the Jedi glances up, then hesitates. Flicks a glance around them, even though there's no one close, and then inclines his head slightly.

“There was an ancient Sith laboratory on this moon,” he says quietly. “A leftover from their last war with the Republic. When the earthquake hit, some of the chambers cracked, and the experiments got loose.”

Disgust curls in Jango's gut, and he grimaces. The Mandalorians still tell stories about the last Sith Empire and its attempt to overwhelm the Republic, and none of the tales are meant for children. The Mandalorian Crusaders and the Sith under Exar Kun were allies, but—

With allies like the Sith, having enemies is just overkill. Jango might be working for one now, but that doesn’t mean he trusts Tyrannus as far as he can throw him.

“How many?” he asks, already calculating how close to keep Boba. Boba's smart, and he’s skilled for his age, but he’s still only ten. If there are things running around this moon that the Sith would have kept as pets, it’s better to keep him close and deal with the whining. And if the Jedi won't tell him, Jango will have to drag him into a dark alley later and beat it out of him—

“Five creatures left,” the Jedi says quietly, grimly. “Maybe six. I'm not sure if the war worm got loose or if it was killed in the collapse. At the very least there’s a hunting pair of mutated vornskrs and a rancor. I've been tracking another katarn, but…”

Katarns are generally the prey of whole groups of Wookies. Jango grimaces, touching his blaster, and makes a mental list of what weaponry he has that might be sufficient. It’s not nearly as much as he would like. “Close to the town?”

“Not yet.”

Jango snorts at the wry weariness in those two words, more than able to relate. He considers for a moment, almost thinks about offering his help, because a hunt like that is sure to be a challenge, but—

Jedi. He’s a Jedi, and Jango's the Jedi-killer, and it’s none of his business.

“Noted,” he says, and pushes to his feet. The Jedi watches him go, gaze steady, and it prickles at Jango's skin but he doesn’t let himself turn around and look as he shoves out the door, intending to find Boba and warn him to stay close.

The Jedi can live for another day. If Jango's lucky, he and the things he’s hunting will take each other out, and that will be better for all involved.

Well. Better for Jango. But Boba and himself are the only things he cares about, so it’s more or less the same thing anyway.

“Are you trying to get your father to kill me?”

Boba almost startles out of his own skin, wrenching around to find the street empty behind him. He stares for a moment, then jerks his head up, and—

Jon. Jon, perched in another tree above the meandering raised street, looking a little like an overgrown bird as he crouches there.

“Kriff,” Boba mutters, giving him a dark look. “Are _you_ trying to kill _me_? With a heart attack?”

He can't see much of Jon's face with his hood up, but his mouth curves just faintly, almost a smile. “I think you’ll survive,” he says, and drops, landing in front of Boba without so much as a sound. Given the boots he’s wearing, it’s a little impressive, and Boba eyes him, wondering if it’s a Force skill or the kind of thing he can learn.

“Maybe,” he allows grudgingly. “But it’s still rude.”

“Rude is also sending me into the cantina where your father was waiting,” Jon says mildly, and Boba very carefully keeps his expression perfectly innocent.

“He was?” he asks. “Sorry, I thought it was the other one he liked.”

Jon snorts quietly, and Boba is a little pleased that he’s not fooled. If Jon's going to keep up with Jango, he needs to stay on his toes, after all. “Whatever you're aiming for,” he says, “leave me out of it.”

Boba rolls his eyes. “All you do is wander around the swamp all day,” he points out. “It’s not like it’s _inconvenient_ for you.”

“Having Jango Fett out for my head would be very inconvenient. I like sleeping, and I’d never be able to do it again.”

That’s not _Jango Fett killing me would be inconvenient_ , which means Jon's confident he would survive. That’s a good sign. Boba grins at him, and says, “My dad’s not _that_ bad. He’s just grumpy.”

“He killed four Jedi with his bare hands.”

“They’d killed his best friend.” Boba weighs what to say for a moment, and finally settles on, “That was before he was a bounty hunter.”

“Back when he was Mand’alor,” Jon finishes quietly, and Boba nods. His dad would probably yell at him for giving a Jedi information, but—

This is a _cool_ Jedi. He doesn’t have a problem with Jango, and he can _teleport_ , and Boba is absolutely convinced that his dad could use someone cool and strong and reliable, given that he’s making deals with Sith. Those deals are the reason Boba exists, granted, but it’s still dangerous.

And besides, Boba has several million little brothers who are going to be in the line of fire if his dad doesn’t figure things out, and a Jedi will help with that. Jango has mostly been pretending the clones aren’t _his_ , but by Mandalorian law they're absolutely his sons. Boba is going to make him see that eventually, and throwing someone who’s his type _and_ won't take his bantha shit into the mix is a good way to get him to listen.

After a long moment, Jon inclines his head. “If he tries to kill me, I’ll fight back,” he says, a gentle warning, and Boba shrugs.

“You're a Jedi, not a settler or something,” he says. “I know. But you can teleport, so I figure you’ve got a better chance of getting away than most Jedi.”

Jon's mouth curls again, and this time there’s very little humor in it, just something wry and rueful. “Boba, if your father attacks me, I won't need to get away. He will.”

Before Boba can answer, Jon turns on his heel and leaps up, landing in the tree again. Quickly, Boba takes a step after him, and says, “Wait!”

He doesn’t think it’s going to work, honestly. But Jon pauses, and even if he doesn’t turn around, Boba knows he’s listening.

“The scanners on our ship can probably pick up the things you're hunting, if they're close enough,” he says quickly. “I can recalibrate them. Tomorrow morning?”

There's a pause, and then Jon asks, sounding faintly amused, “And what do you want in return?”

Boba grins. He’s quick. “Dinner,” he says, “for me and my dad.”

Jon considers it for a moment, then inclines his head gravely. “Acceptable,” he says, and throws himself up and forward in a long, twisting leap that defies gravity and physics both, then hits a rooftop and redirects, dropping down among the trees beyond the first line of buildings and vanishing from sight.

With Jon safely out of sight, Boba makes a sound of victory, punching the air. Jango's going to be on the _Slave I_ all day tomorrow, doing some repairs, so no matter what time Jon shows up, they’ll run into each other. And then, when Jon gets food for the owed dinner—or better yet, takes them out to eat—Boba will make himself scarce—

Behind a stack of crates, something rustles.

Instantly, Boba turns, eyes narrowing. He’s got a vibroblade with him, but nothing big, and if it’s a serious threat, he might need to comm Jango. Which isn't precisely disappointing, but it’s always better when Boba can handle things himself.

Carefully, quietly, Boba edges around the crates, slipping into the shadows and staying low as he makes his way around the far side from the noise. It comes again, a scuff like someone is trying to be quiet, and maybe it’s just someone who was interested in Jon's presence, but—

Boba catches sight of a head of shaggy brown hair and lunges, throwing his full weight at the spy. Instantly, there’s a loud, indignant yelp, a crash, and they tumble over a stack of boards, spill into the street, and land hard. Squirming limbs bat at Boba, but he shoves the spy down, pins his legs the way Jango taught him, and raises his head.

Disappointment flares, and Boba scoffs loudly. “You're just a _kid_ ,” he says disgustedly.

“So’re you!” the other boy hisses, still wriggling. He punches at Boba, but Boba just rolls his eyes and catches his fist, unimpressed. He doesn’t get up, because the kid is one he’s definitely seen hanging around the Corellian ships in the port, and that makes Boba frown suspiciously.

“What do Corellian smugglers want with me and my dad?” he demands. “Why are you spying on me?”

Insultingly, the kid rolls his eyes. “I don’t care about _you_ ,” he retorts. “I was trying to see the Jedi, you bantha brain!”

Boba can't help the sound of sheer offense that’s pulled from him. “I don’t believe you!”

“I don’t care! It’s true!”

“I'm a _Fett_ , of course those smuggler bastards you're with want to know about us!”

That makes the kid flush, and he gives Boba a defiant look. “They don’t even know I snuck out,” he says. “I'm not _spying_ , I just wanted to see if there was really a Jedi here. I thought they weren’t real. But you're trying to get one killed!”

“I'm trying to get him to go on a _date_ ,” Boba says, annoyed. “With my _dad_. I don’t want him killed. He’s weird, but he’s cool.”

“Oh.” The kid settles down, though he’s still giving Boba a suspicious look. “Promise?”

“Swear,” Boba says firmly. “My word as a Mandalorian.”

“Then let me up already,” the kid tells him, and Boba rolls his eyes but does, rising to his feet and pointedly brushing off his pants. The other boy gets up, too, and he eyes Boba for a moment, then says, “I'm Han.”

A little surprised, Boba glances up at him, but he’s still hovering, clearly wants something, so Boba just says, “I'm Boba Fett.”

“Nice to meet you,” Han says a little grudgingly, and then, “Can I meet the Jedi?”

Boba opens his mouth to refuse, but—

Well. It’s the perfect opportunity to get some cheap help, isn't it? Jango always says that subcontracting is a valid way of making a few credits, and the same probably applies here.

“Sure,” Boba says, and smirks at him. “And in return, you get to help me.”

Han looks less than enthused by this offer, but that’s fine. He’ll come around eventually, Boba is sure. And besides, it’s for a good cause if he can make Jango think he’s not the mastermind behind all of this. The good cause of Boba not getting grounded for eternity and all of that.

“Deal,” Han says reluctantly, and holds out a hand.

Boba grins and takes it. Everything’s coming together, and it’s looking like this plan is going to work _excellently_. He can't wait.


	2. Chapter 2

Of all the things Jon expected to walk in on when he slipped up to the Firespray-31 at the far edge of the tiny port, this isn't it.

Raising a brow, he pauses at the edge of the cleared ring of pavement that just peeks above the swamp, watching one of the Jedi Order’s most dangerous enemies howl in outrage as his son tackles him backwards into a shallow pool of clean water. Jango is shirtless, stripped down and streaked with grease, but he’s grinning, and Boba is laughing wickedly, wrestling him down. He only gets a moment to savor his victory, though, before Jango is lunging back to his feet, hauling Boba up over his shoulder and twisting to dump him in a pile of soggy bedding that looks like it’s recently been washed.

Instantly, Boba shrieks in anger, clawing his way up out of the pile, and grabs for a bucket full of sudsy water that’s sitting near him. He rises, advances—

“Boba,” Jango warns, retreated with narrowed eyes. “Don’t you dare, I’ll hang you from the gun turret—”

“The idea of punishment shouldn’t stop a determined warrior,” Boba says, smirking. It sounds like a quote, and from the offense that crosses Jango's face, Jon can guess the source.

“You shouldn’t let most punishment stop you, maybe, but I'm your father, and I can end you—”

Boba throws the water, bucket and all, right at his father, and Jango throws himself to the side, hits the ground and rolls back to his feet. He grabs for a hose, and Boba shrieks in dismay, but he’s in the middle of open ground with no cover. He braces—

It’s madness, and frivolous, but Jon raises a hand.

The bucket flips upward, drops down right in the path of the water just as the hose turns on, and it reflects with a vast, wide spray of water that drenches Jango instantly. He shouts in offense, and Boba whoops, launching himself forward right at his father. His full weight hits Jango around the waist, and Jango goes down, landing hard on his back with Boba on his chest. With a wheeze, he drops his head back, and Boba raises both arms with a sound of victory, then scrambles up and turns to Jon, grinning.

“Perfect timing, Jon,” he says smugly.

Jon snorts, flicking a finger. The bucket soars up, then drops down, and it settles over Boba's head with a light thump.

“Congratulations on your victory,” he says, amused, and Boba huffs and hauls the bucket off, giving him a dirty look.

“So you're on _his_ side now?” he demands.

“I'm an agent of chaos,” Jon says mildly, and Boba rolls his eyes. It makes Jon smile, just a little, and he sweeps a look over the landing pad, the clear signs of a thorough cleaning that are happening, and says, “Should I come back later?”

“No,” Boba says quickly, dropping the bucket. “I can work on the scanners right now. Dad’s bounty isn't going to be here for another week, so we’re just scrubbing.”

“The ship or each other?” Jon asks dryly, and Boba pulls a face at him.

“I don’t _have_ to help you find your swamp monsters,” he says pointedly.

“So you volunteered _my_ ship to help a Jedi?” Jango asks, rolling to his feet. He gives Jon a wary, sidelong look, then apparently decides his blaster is close enough at hand, and heads towards a disassembled panel by the ramp.

Boba smirks. “It’s going to be my ship in the future,” he points out, “so it’s more like I volunteered my half of _our_ ship to help a Jedi.”

Jango's breath is exasperated. “That is _not_ how that works,” he tells his son. “Don’t drip all over the controls, Boba.”

“I’ll get a towel,” Boba says, rolling his eyes, but he grabs Jon's sleeve and drags him forward. “Come on, you can help me figure out what I'm looking for. _Slave I_ has some of the best scanners in the system, so they pick up _everything_.”

Jon slants a sideways glance at Jango, but the man seems to be pointedly ignoring them, so he lets Boba haul him up the ramp and into the ship. It’s clearly in the process of being scrubbed down, and he minds a few suspiciously dark spots on the grating as Boba leads him towards the front. The seats there are clearly well-worn, like the whole ship, but carefully maintained, and Boba leaves him there, ducking into the bunkroom to grab a towel. Jon very carefully doesn’t touch anything, because he’s heard plenty of stories about the _Slave I_ ’s booby traps, and he’s not about to test them.

“You said the things were vornskrs, right?” Boba asks as he comes back, towel draped over his head and clothes still wet. He climbs up in the pilot’s seat, then leans forward, hitting buttons, and after a moment a display rises over the controls, points of light dotting the map of the town.

Jon makes a quiet sound of agreement, leaning forward. “Some of them,” he says, and ignores the majority of the dots, instead studying the scattered ones at the very outskirts of the display. Instinctive, immediate, he knows which one is the katarn he’s been hunting; it took a fisherman two days ago, and has been keeping to the deepest, most impenetrable parts of the swamp since. This, though, could be its den, and Jon just needs to get there so he can deal with it.

“I can recalibrate your scanners, too, if you want,” Boba offers, watching him. “Or Dad can. He’s really good at it.”

“I don’t have a ship,” Jon says absently, tracing another set of paired heat signatures that he’s certain belong to the vornskrs. There's nothing else that catches his attention, though, which likely means the rest of the chrysalides are far enough from the town that he can focus on these three for now.

“What?” Boba asks in confusion, brows furrowing. “How’d you get here, then?”

“I bartered passage on a cargo freighter,” Jon says, and when Boba gives him an incredulous look, he raises a brow. “Jedi don’t have possessions.”

Boba doesn’t look like this makes things better. “Doesn’t the _Order_ have ships, though?” he demands. “Why don’t you just use one of those?”

Jon shakes his head, straightening, and fixes the position of the three chrysalides in his memory. “I don’t go to Coruscant,” he says, “and I don’t deal with the rest of the Order much. They don’t come to the Outer Rim often, and I won't leave it.”

There's a thump of metal being set down, and Jango snorts loudly, disparaging. “And what’s one Jedi supposed to be able to do?” he asks. When Jon turns, Jango is watching him, eyes dark, something angry in his face.

 _They’d killed his best friend_ , Boba had said, and Jon's heard enough stories of Galidraan to believe it without hesitation. The truth of what happened there is something that likely only Jango knows, and Jon wants to ask, but he has enough respect not to.

“Not much,” Jon says quietly, and inclines his head to Jango, then tells Boba, “Thank you. I'm grateful for your assistance,” and steps away. Jango is blocking the path back out of the ship, and Jon hesitates, not wanting to shove past him.

Jango clearly sees it. His mouth curves, not a friendly expression, and he asks, “Then why come out here at all?”

For a long moment, Jon weighs his answers. He could say duty, or orders, because both are true; he’s a Jedi, and he’s never been anything else, and Dark Woman was always very clear that she didn’t want Jon to be another Coruscanti Jedi beholden to the Senate. But—

“Because if I can save one person, that makes it worthwhile,” Jon says quietly. He considers for a moment, then bows to Jango and says, “That’s what Jedi are for.”

There's a long stretch of silence, and then Jango scoffs. “The Mandalorians wouldn’t have nearly as much of a problem with the Jedi if that were true,” he says, but he shifts, and Jon rises and slips past him, heading for the entrance.

But—

He pauses at the edge of the ship, one foot on wet pavement, and takes a breath. Thinks of the right thing to say, and it’s not a pleasant one, isn't an easy one, but the right thing rarely is.

Fay is the one who taught him that, not Dark Woman.

“The loss of the True Mandalorians was a blow to the galaxy,” he says quietly, and hears Jango's sharp breath, a _growl_. Turns, meeting his furious expression as evenly as possible, and says, “The Jedi were tricked. That doesn’t remove our responsibility. The whole Order owes you several hundred life-debts, Fett, should you ever want to call them in.”

Jango laughs, and it’s a raw, wretched sound, so full of fury that it practically vibrates. “Yeah? Should I call them up and tell them that? Wait for them to laugh me right out of the damned system? Jedi don’t do regret. They definitely don’t give a damn about _Mandalorians_.”

Jon hesitates. “I'm not the only one who thinks so,” he says after a moment, and it’s true. The whole Council regrets the debacle on Galidraan, and he hates contacting Dark Woman, but—she knows just what screws to twist to get them to agree to whatever Jango wants. “I can leave my comm code with you, in case you ever need assistance.”

“From a _Jedi_?” Jango bites out. “Get karked.”

Not an unexpected reaction, given what Jango reportedly lost on Galidraan. Jon bows to him again, accepting that, and turns, heading for the town with steady steps. He’ll give Boba his code at some point, when Jango isn't there to see; it’s the least he can do, given what happened.

In the meantime, there are Sith creatures eating the people here. Jon is only one soul, can't do much, but—

That, at least, he can fix, and so he will.

It’s hard to breathe through the fury, the rage, the grief. Jango presses his fist to the bulkhead, trying to concentrate on each inhale, each slow exhale, but it’s hard. He wants to go after the Jedi, to tear his throat out with his bare hands, grind him into the dirt and watch the light leave his eyes. Wants it more than anything, desperate and vicious, and doesn’t regret it.

All he can see is Myles, cut in half. The massacre, dozens of Jedi slaughtering the True Mandalorians, the last of Jaster’s legacy, the last of Jango's family. They were everything, all of Jango's honor and principles given form, and with the loss of them, with Jango's imprisonment—

“Dad?” Boba asks tentatively, and a moment later Jango feels his son’s hand on his arm. Reaches out, automatic, and wraps an arm around his shoulders, hauling him in tight against his side.

“What is it?” he asks, rough in his throat.

“Sorry for telling Jon he could come on the ship,” Boba says quietly, and leans into Jango's side.

Jango breathes out, opens his eyes. “It’s fine,” he says after a moment, and it isn't. Nothing will ever be fine again, in Jango's world, but—he has Boba, and that’s more than enough to make him content.

There's a long, long moment of heavy silence as Jango focuses on his son, his ship, the freedom he’s earned for himself. Then, soft, almost wary, Boba asks, “Do you ever want to make another group of True Mandalorians?”

Jango swallows. He can't say he’s never considered it, in the depths of the night. The True Mandalorians were Jaster’s, and Jango will never not want to honor his father’s memory. But, at the same time, the True Mandalorians are gone. They died on Galidraan, slaughtered because of a _trick_ , and there's no getting them back.

“They were from Mandalore’s army,” he says after a moment. “Jaster had enough respect to pull them in. But I'm not Mand’alor anymore. The New Mandalorians don’t even consider me a citizen right now.”

And that _burns_ , in a way Jango hadn’t thought it would. When El Les had passed on the information, Jango had wanted to rage, to stalk right into the Duchess’s fancy palace and drag her out into the real world. The New Mandalorians don’t stand for everyone, don’t speak for the kinds of Mandalorians Jango fought and bled with, and he hates every last one of them and their polished, holier-than-thou ideals.

Pacifism isn't the Mandalorian way. Pushing that on everyone in the system, just because they think they're better for having rejected all of Mandalore’s history and ways, is a good way to get dead, and Jango hopes like hell that it happens soon. War isn't the only way to live, but it’s the _Mandalorian_ way, and trying to gloss over that just makes those in charge look like blind fools.

“Idiots,” Boba says disgustedly, digging his fingers into Jango's arm like he won't allow himself to be removed. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, but then he glances up at Jango and asks, “But if you had the numbers?”

Jango lets out a rough breath, brushing his hand over Boba's curls. “Probably,” he allows, because there's really nothing else he can say. He gave up on the True Mandalorians for years, but—

They're Jaster’s legacy. Jango lost everything on Galidraan, but he still has enough honor and love for his father, even years after his death, to want to keep what Jaster built intact.

“What about the clones?” Boba asks, watching him. “If you asked them—”

Jango frowns a little, and there's something dark in the pit of his stomach that he refuses to contemplate. “They’re clones,” he says flatly. “And I have a contract with the Kaminoans. They're soldiers for the Republic, not potential True Mandalorians.”

“ _I'm_ a clone,” Boba says, rolling his eyes, though he doesn’t let go of Jango. “And Ponds was saying—”

“They don’t have names,” Jango interrupts. “Don’t—”

“They _do_ ,” Boba interrupts, and finally pulls away. He scowls at Jango. “You're the one who wanted me to train with them.”

A mistake Jango is coming to regret. It had seemed like the best way to keep Boba out of trouble while Jango was hunting down a bounty, but clearly, it went awry in ways Jango probably should have predicted. “That doesn’t mean—”

“ _Dad_.” Boba gives him a look that’s mulish and angry and kriffing _disappointed_ , and then turns around and bolts, heading for the town like he can't stand being around Jango for one more second.

Jango will never admit the way something in his chest lurches as Boba disappears around a stand of trees.

But.

But Jango is angry, too, and the Jedi's words are ringing in his head, and that’s a thousand times easier to focus on than whatever ideas Boba's gotten from his new best friend. A _clone_ , and Jango won't let some pale copy of himself turn his son against him.

One problem at a time, though. For right now, there’s a Jedi in the swamp, a Jedi who thinks an _apology_ is going to make up for any part of what Jango lost at his Order’s hands. Jango's breath rasps in his throat, painful, _wrathful_ , and he turns around, snatching up his shirt, then pulling his armor down off the hook where it’s hanging.

The Jedi's in the swamp, and Jango saw what signatures caught his attention. That will make tracking him simple, and he’s alone, distracted, vulnerable.

Jango has a high-powered blaster rifle with his name on it, and maybe killing one Jedi won't fix anything, but it will sure as hell make Jango feel better.

Jon picks up the trail of the katarn just before the screaming starts.

The cries are a child’s, loud and panicked, and Jon doesn’t even pause. He flings himself toward the sound, hurling himself around huge, twisted trees and rotting logs, through the shafts of golden sun that turn the water black. It’s been disturbed, a clear track heading right towards the commotion, and Jon takes one look at the deep claw-marks in a leaning tree and draws his lightsaber.

Ahead of him, a motor roars to life, and more shouts rise. Adults, this time, rapidly approaching, but the child is still yelling, still panicked, and Jon feels a curl of disgust as a swamp-speeder hurtles past him, spraying brackish water everywhere. The people aboard are smugglers he recognizes from the town, Corellian and rough-looking, clearly afraid, and Jon is almost tempted to push their speeder right into the path of a particularly solid-looking tree, but he doesn’t. The child needs saving more than revenge.

Jon hits a patch of dry ground, rises. The katarn is in a tree, huge and twisted and draconian, looming over the tiny figure of a ten-year-old boy who’s clinging to the end of the branch, teetering dangerously. The limb is too thin for the katarn, but all that’s beneath it is water, and soon—

The katarn takes a step out onto the branch, making it jerk, and the boy shouts in fear as his grip slips. Jon curses, flips his lightsaber up, and flings it like a spear even as he throws himself forward.

He catches the boy in midair, twists, lands against the trunk of a tree and flips, launching himself back to the patch of dry ground. At the same moment, the katarn shrieks, Jon's lightsaber stabbing deep into its shoulder. It wrenches sideways, leaping from the tree, and Jon drops the boy on his feet, calls his lightsaber back, and leaps to meet it, snatching it out of the air as he falls towards the chrysalid. Its long, whip-like tail sweeps at him, and Jon spends half an instant of concentration, feels his own form waver like particles caught in a disruptor and drops right _through_ the blow. Swings, two-handed, and the katarn screams as he cuts clean through its tail. Jon lands on its back, takes a step—

With a vicious twist, the katarn lashes out, massive claws raking down Jon's chest in a disemboweling blow.

The pain registers, of course. It always does. Jon's used to pain, though, and lets himself be thrown back, takes the distance gladly. Channels a touch of Force that almost leaps forward to his command, and sweeps a hand down his chest. That burns too, but the skin and muscle knits itself back together, seals in an instant.

When he hits the trunk of the closest fallen tree, he spits out a mouthful of blood, straightens, and flips his ‘saber around, a silent dare.

Hissing, the katarn twists around to face him, hunkered down low and dangerous. Its rat-like face splits, showing dripping teeth, and Jon tilts his head, trying to catalogue differences between this chrysalid and the regular katarns he’s faced. Bigger, this one, more heavily armored, and those teeth are probably poisoned. Its claws are longer, too, the spurs dripping something viscous and black.

Dangerous, but not insurmountable. He just needs to be clever about it.

Raising a hand, he focuses, feels out the Force that curls through the plants beneath the water. There are roots and tangled runners, grasping limbs that come alive as he twists them up, and they burst through the surface, wrap tight around the katarn’s legs even as it hisses and tries to leap away. It’s not enough to keep it contained for more than a moment, but Jon throws himself right at it, ducking the thrashing head and lashing out, opening a deep gash down its side before it wrenches free with a snarl. It lunges at him, claws flashing, and Jon leaps up, twists over its head, and flings up a hand as it rounds on him. Focuses, all his attention on the curl of the Force in the palm of his hand, ducks his head and pulls his hood down over his face and calls to the boy, “Close your eyes!”

A brilliant flash of light sends the katarn reeling back, clawing at face, and Jon sends more plants winding up its body with a sweep of his hand. In the same moment, he lunges, bringing his lightsaber around in one hard, slashing blow, and even as long claws gouge deep into his side he separates its head from its body.

With a heavy splash, the corpse goes tumbling into the swamp, and Jon staggers, stumbles. He lands on one knee, lightsaber extinguishing, and stays there for a long moment, breathing hard. There's something wet bubbling in his lungs, blood sheeting down his side, but he closes his eyes, ignoring it for the moment. Fumbling a little, he clips his lightsaber to his belt again, then sinks down onto both knees, curls his hands together, and bows to the body that’s slowly sinking into the mire.

“I'm sorry for what was done to you,” he murmurs, because katarns are a sacred animal to the Wookies, deserve at least that much respect from him. This one was mad, twisted, like the last one Jon fought, and that was the doing of whatever Sith lord built their laboratory here, but the creature itself is blameless, a victim. “The Sith spare no one.”

It feels a little like Jon is breathing underwater, like he can't draw a full breath, and he grimaces, leans forward. Presses a hand to his side, feeling for the torn flesh, and grits his teeth as he summons another surge of Force healing. It tears through him, imperfect and rough, and Jon gasps, curling in on himself for just a second, but—

It works. It’s not supposed to be pleasant. Not supposed to be like Temple healing. This is a battlefield medic’s patchwork job, just enough to keep him moving, keep him fighting. And for that, it’s sufficient.

Shaking his head to get rid of the dizziness, Jon pushes to his feet, pulling the shreds of his tunic around himself, and mentally resigns himself to an afternoon of needlework. At some point, he’ll need to call Nico, see about getting more clothes from the Temple, since Nico at least returns more frequently and can pass his request along. Until then, there's quite a bit of mending on Jon's near future.

The glamorous, heroic life of a Jedi, Jon thinks wryly, and leaps across the gap, landing lightly on the spur of solid ground. His balance wavers, and he lands, stumbles again, and drops to one knee, but pushes up as much as he can and raises his head, folding his hood back.

“Are you all right?” he asks softly, and the boy, wide-eyed and brown-haired and wearing clothes that look about as worthy of the rubbish pile as Jon's, nods quickly.

“They _left_ me!” he says, like this is the greatest indignity of the whole day, more important than his own near-brush with death via Sith monster. “They left me as _bait_!”

Jon breathes out, grim. “I know,” he says. “Your family?”

The boy shakes his head. “I don’t have a family,” he says, practically daring Jon to comment.

Gravely, Jon inclines his head. “Neither do I,” he says. “Someone left me on the street when I was a year old.”

There's a pause, suspicious, startled. “Oh,” the boy says. Looks Jon over, like he’s waiting for him to reveal it to be a lie, and then says, “Me too. Not a year, but—my dad disappeared.” He frowns, wary, and says, “Why would someone leave a _Jedi_?”

“I wasn’t a Jedi then,” Jon points out. “Just a kid.” He considers for a moment, then brings his hands up, bows over them, and says, “I'm Jedi Master Jon Antilles. Thank you for helping me find the beast I was hunting.”

Something in the boy’s posture eases. “You're welcome,” he says. “I'm Han, with the White Worms.” He hesitates, then scowls. “I _was_ with the White Worms. But they left me, so now I'm _not_.”

A Corellian street gang, Jon thinks. No wonder they just up and left the boy. But if he can't go back to the gang, and he doesn’t have any family to speak of on Corellia, that means he’s left without anywhere to go.

Apparently Jon's call to Nico is going to be about a lot more than just clothes.

“Would you like to stay with me instead?” he asks, offering Han his hand. “There are more beasts I need to deal with, but then I’ll be leaving this moon. If you want, I can take you with me. or I can find someone who will take you in.” The Order has connections to orphanages and shelters in the Core, after all, and normally they wouldn’t take an Outer Rim boy, but Nico can arrange things. His family is old, renowned, and full of both Jedi and senators. If he can't figure out something, no one can.

“ _Me_?” Han says, incredulous. “You want to take _me_ with you? Why?”

It’s aggressive, almost angry. Not aimed at Jon, though; he can feel that much, and he hardly blames Han for the suspicion, given what’s happened to him.

“Yes,” Jon says, quiet, steady. “You're clever, to have survived, and you're brave to have faced a chrysalid like you did. I would be honored if you would come with me.”

There's a long, long pause as Han stares at him. Then, slow, Han nods, and pointedly looks away. Doesn’t say anything, but that’s answer enough, and Jon smiles a little.

“Thank you,” he says seriously. “We should get back to the town before the wildlife comes out to see what happened.”

“Do you have a boat?” Han asks, and scowls. “Those sleemo bastards took the only one that that thing didn’t sink.”

Jon snorts softly. “I'm a Jedi,” he says. “I don’t need a boat. Can you climb up on my back?”

Han gives him a deeply skeptical look. “But you got _hurt_.”

“I healed it.” Jon tugs his torn tunic aside to show Han the new scar, the lack of torn flesh. “It takes far more than one katarn to kill a Jedi Master.”

“Oh. Okay.” Han relaxes a little, then nods. He waits until Jon turns, crouching again, and then scrambles up on his back, wrapping boney arms around his neck. Jon gets an arm under his thighs, then straights, and refuses to let himself waver. He’s fine. Surviving the fight and rescuing those in danger is all that matters, and Jon did that. He can find a place to collapse once he gets back to the town.

“Hang on,” he warns, and leaps, a touch of the Force carrying him across a wide strip of swamp to land lightly on a half-submerged log. It dips, cracks, but Jon is already off, launching himself at a high branch. Han’s arms go strangling-tight even as he lets out a crow of elated surprise, and Jon huffs in amusement, landing on a wide branch. This time he manages to catch himself before his balance wavers, and he tips his head, asks, “Good?”

“That’s _awesome_ ,” Han says. “Can you flip?”

Jon winces, but looks for an open space between the trees. The sun is high, and the light on the water makes things swim a little. Or maybe that’s the blood loss. But—

Han was just abandoned by the only companions he had, left stranded to give them time to flee. He’s holding up well, but this is the least Jon can do for him.

“Grip with your legs, too,” he says, and picks up a run along the wide branch. As it narrows, he ducks low, then leaps high as he grabs Han’s knees, twisting over in a summersault that makes Han shout. The next branch is narrower, more rounded, and Jon hits it hard, jumps again, and lands on a patch of dry ground between the trees with a heavy breath. Pauses there for a long moment, steadying himself, and then glances back.

“Like that?” he asks, and Han grins at him.

“ _Wizard_ ,” he says, and Jon can't help but laugh a little, ducking his head. He moves more slowly, because at least in this part of the swamp the water level is lower, and he can make long, easy leaps between the patches of dirt.

“My Master taught me that on a world with nothing but mountains and cliffs,” he says, ducking beneath a low sweep of branches. “She would take me up to the top and then race me to the bottom.”

Of course, Dark Woman’s version of a race was a lot more cutthroat, even then. Jon had learned, though, and he’s good at keeping his footing, good at Force-assisted flight. Good at acrobatics, too, which at least amuses Han.

“Whole mountains?” Han asks, sounding impressed. “What if you fell?”

“Then I’d have a lot of chances to catch myself on the way down,” Jon says, amused. Ahead of them, wide and mostly flat, is a half-rotted tree that’s floating in the water, and he jumps to it, waits a moment to see if it will sink, and then kneels down. “Here. Take a seat. This is easier than walking the whole way.”

“Are you going to make it fly?” Han asks, but he slides off Jon's back, sits down with a thump that makes the log rock.

“That would be inconvenient, with all of these trees,” Jon says, and settles down beside him, crossing his legs. He raises his hands, focusing, and the log shifts, jerks. Han sucks in a breath, but a moment later it starts to move, sailing over the surface with a light push as the water deepens. Jon keeps it afloat, keeps it moving, and it’s a little easier, a little steadier than just trying to keep jumping with the weight of a child on his back. He breathes out, relieved, and—

Sunlight catches on metal, and Jon raises his head. Turns, just a little, to catch the flash of a blaster barrel between the trees, and when he breathes in he can smell the burn of fuel from a jetpack.

There's no sense of threat, though, just a tangle of emotions that Jon can't even begin to pull apart. No intent to do harm, at the very least, and Jon turns back to the front, pulls his hood up, and lets Han’s questions distract him.

Jango isn't a threat right now. That’s good enough for Jon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change. It's mostly for next chapter, but this one definitely hits an M rating as well.

The White Worm members who left Han in the swamp aren’t back at the ship when Jon and Han make it out, and Han insists that Jon wait outside while he slips in and retrieves his few possessions from their freighter. Jon spends most of the time he’s out of sight sitting on their makeshift boat and meditating, because that’s the best way he knows to deal with tension.

He trusts that Han can take care of himself in most situations, if he’s managed to survive the gang this long already. Knows that Dark Woman would chide him about attachment, and trying to possess people, and the dangers that arise when Jedi care about one person over others instead of for people in general. But—

This isn't attachment. Jon of all people knows how to drag all of his flaws out into the light and tear them apart. This is worry for Han, because he’s been through too much, and Jon doesn’t want him to have to face more strife if it can be prevented. The White Worm is a small-time gang, shouldn’t have much reach beyond Corellia itself, but Jon still wants to be cautious. If he hears anything, or feels anything, it will be the work of a moment to get to Han and help him.

Letting people suffer unnecessarily, even when it’s potentially for their own good, isn't something Jon has ever been able to bear.

Of course, being in the spaceport puts Jon close to _Slave I_ , and he can't keep his eyes from straying in that direction. It’s out of sight behind s tangle of swamp trees, but Jon knows it’s there. He can't stop thinking of Jango in the swamp, blaster raised, ready to fire and then choosing not to. Can't stop thinking about Jango on the ship, grief in him that’s slid right into fury. Deserved, all of it—what happened on Galidraan was a tragedy, and the Jedi Order was culpable. They should have done research, shouldn’t have trusted so readily; situations like that are the reason Jedi like Dark Woman exist, after all, subtle and sly and good at ferreting out secrets no matter how deeply they're hidden.

If Dark Woman had been there, maybe the True Mandalorians wouldn’t have been carved away, cut down to one and imprisoned. Lost, from what Jon knows of Jango. It aches somewhere, deep in his chest, and Jon curls his hands together, closes his eyes.

The Jedi Order isn't perfect. It’s made up of flawed beings, beholden to a Senate made up of more flawed beings. There's no way to avoid some amount of failing, in the face of that. But—

But the Battle of Galidraan was too many failures, too much pressure from outside sources and not enough clear thinking from the Jedi involved. It’s the kind of thing Dark Woman always loathed in particular; her belief in the Force is a powerful, almost overwhelming thing, as is her belief in the Order, but she sees its shortcomings as well as anyone. It’s why her last order to Jon as his Master was to never set foot on Coruscant unless absolutely necessary, to avoid the political trappings of being a Jedi and simply do the work of one, stripped down to its essentials.

Jon has many, many feelings about Dark Woman, all of them complicated, but she wasn’t wrong.

He can't sense Boba on the ship, but he doesn’t stretch his senses out towards the town proper to look for him, assumes he’s well enough if he’s allowed to roam freely. Jango got angry, but there was nothing Jon sensed in him that would ever take that out on his son, so Jon feels settled about that at least. Less about Jango in general, but between the flickers of guilt for what he suffered because of the Jedi, and the small bits of admiration for what he’s made himself into, Jon expected that.

He hurt the man, bringing up Galidraan. Hadn’t meant to, but had done it anyways. At least he spoke his piece, made the Jedi's culpability clear, made some attempt at an apology no matter how worthless. Jango won't forgive, but that’s fine; it’s his right as the one wronged so deeply, and all Jon can do is lay the apology before him and be content with that.

Sighing a little, Jon pulls his attention from the empty _Slave I_ , fishing his comm out of his belt pouch and turning it on. It whirs at him, the light flickering as a missed message registers, and Jon checks the code. It’s not one he recognizes, which means it’s likely Fay's; she doesn’t carry a comm herself, but she’s been known to borrow them from passersby when she wants to get in touch.

Of course, that means Jon can't exactly comm her in return. He’s learned that lesson well, and it was _awkward_.

Amused and resigned in equal measure, Jon settles on Nico's code instead, given that Nico is far less likely to be in the middle of a bar brawl or a fight with pirates. _Usually_.

He has Tae now. That generally makes him at least _pretend_ to be more restrained then Knol, even if in truth he’s just as bad as she is. Worse, maybe. Knol at least keeps her battles to enemies of the Republic; Nico doesn’t give a damn if they're friends, enemies, or allies, as long as he thinks they’ve done something wrong.

“Master Antilles! Hello,” a voice says a moment later, and it’s faintly breathless, more than a little chagrined.

Jon pauses, reassessing his estimate that Nico is the better one to call. “Padawan Tae,” he says, wary. “I was fairly certain I was trying to reach your uncle.”

“Oh,” Tae says, but not like he accidentally picked up Nico's comm. More like he was hoping Jon would take it as a wrong code and end the call. “Right, yes. Were you?”

With a snort, Jon sinks back, shifting out of his kneeling position to cross his legs beneath himself. “Tae, where is Nico?” he asks, already amused.

There's a quiet sigh over the line. “He’s nearby,” Tae says dutifully, like that’s what he was instructed to say. When Jon hums, unimpressed, he can practically hear Tae’s wince. “Sorry, Master Antilles. Master Dooku is presenting a speech at this academy tonight, and I think Uncle Nico is…investigating.”

At that Jon winces, too. If Dooku is speaking, Nico is probably going to pick a fight. “You're at a distance?” he asks.

“I don’t do well with crowds yet.” Tae pauses, and then offers, “Master Ven’nari is here, too.”

Well. Apparently Jon should just have called her. “Is she with you now?”

There's a pause, a rustle, and then Knol's dry voice comes over the link. “Vagabond. Up to your usual tricks?”

“No infiltrating the Bounty Hunters’ Guild this time,” Jon says, and eyes the Corellian freighter in front of him. “Knol, do you know about the White Worm gang from Corellia?”

For a moment, all Jon can hear is silence, and he can practically see Knol wrinkling her nose. She’s an equine Bothan; that’s a lot of nose to wrinkle. “Getting into Core world street crime now, vagabond? Even if you are, you can do better than them.”

Jon snorts softly. “I found a boy,” he says. “He was one of theirs, but I'm taking him with me.”

“Adopting a padawan?” Knol asks interestedly. “He Force-sensitive?”

Jon blinks. He hadn’t considered that, hadn’t even thought to check. But—there's a long, long history of Jedi being drawn to Force-sensitive children, to the point that fate seems to bend around them and wring coincidence out of the most improbably circumstances. His meeting with Han wasn’t quite that, but—there were certainly shades of it.

“I'm…not sure,” he says slowly. “But he’s too old to be a padawan.”

Knol grunts. “Doesn’t change the fact that he’ll need at least some training if he is,” she says, and then, “You coming to join us? I might need help keeping Nico from kicking Dooku's ass all the way back to the Temple.”

“Did you know Fay calls it a lover’s spat?” Jon asks, amused.

Knol makes a sound like a loth-cat choking on rat bones. “Don’t even _say_ that, Antilles—”

“Wait, Uncle Nico and _Dooku_?” Tae cuts in, sounding delighted. “Is _that_ why he’s so mad at Dooku all the time?”

“Ask your uncle,” Knol says with a sigh. “I don’t want to think about it. Dooku's a prick.”

“He’s well-respected,” Jon offers quietly, and Knol groans.

“He trained that airhead, Qui-Gon Jinn,” she says. “And Nico hates him. I'm reserving judgement.”

That, Jon allows, is probably a good idea. Nico was crèchemates with Dooku; he probably knows him better than most. With a sigh, he tugs the band out of his hair, leaning forward to brace his elbow on his knee, and runs his fingers through the tangled strands. There’s mud caked in his hair, and he needs a bath. Now that he has Han, sleeping in trees probably isn't all that feasible anyway, so he should likely find himself a room somewhere. The town has an inn. He can afford it, given how few of the mission credits that the Temple sends out he actually uses.

“Is Nico going to speak with Dooku?” he asks quietly, and there's an itch at the back of his mind, something unsettling, uncomfortable.

“For a given value of _talking_.” Knol pauses, then groans loudly. “I don’t mean that the way it sounded.”

Tae’s laughter is muffled, but definitely still audible. “He was hoping to talk to him after this presentation,” he says. “Something about the corruption of the Core worlds and stagnation in the Republic.”

Jon snorts softly, because if Dooku really wanted to help the Outer Rim planets, he’d try and reform the Senate, which is where pretty much all of the stagnation is. The Jedi can't, from their position; they’ve lost most of their autonomy over the years, and now they're practically an arm of the Senate, bound up and blunted and stripped of their teeth. But a former Jedi, one with a position and political ties like Dooku's? If he wanted, he could shake the whole foundation of the Senate. But he’d rather give dramatic speeches in the Rim and incite people to violence.

“Tell Nico to ask him about Galidraan,” he says on impulse, though that’s too kind a word for it; this is a thing with teeth that bites at his spine, settles into his nerve endings. Galidraan is important. Dooku is important. _Jango_ is important, and his ties to both Dooku and Galidraan matter in a way Jon can't quite put into words. “And Jango Fett, if he can.”

There's a moment of silence, and then Knol huffs. “I don’t know what An’ya did to you to kick your instincts into overdrive, but they're not usually wrong,” she says frankly. “I’ll tell him. Don’t hold your breath, though. The odds of it turning into a lightsaber duel before they’ve said ten words to each other is high. They'd rather wave their swords at each other than behave like reasonable adults.” Another pause, and she groans again, louder. “I didn’t mean _that_ the way it sounded, either. Damn you for putting that thought in my head, Antilles.”

Jon muffles a soft laugh behind one hand. “I'm staying on Ildes for the time being,” he says. “An earthquake released chrysalides from an old Sith workshop here. I need to kill them.”

“Well, if anyone can, I have faith it will be you,” Knol says, a little dry. “One fewer cool head to help keep Nico in line, but I suppose I can manage in a pinch.”

“Fay tried to comm me,” Jon offers. “She’ll probably try you next. Have her come help.”

Knol makes a thoughtful sound. “If anyone can pry Dooku's secrets out of his head, it’s Fay, and she won't hesitate if she thinks something’s off,” she allows. “You think he’s that much of a threat?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says quietly. “But…”

“Something is telling you he is,” Knol finishes for him. “Well, I'm inclined to trust you, vagrant. If she reaches out, I’ll ask her to meet us. Leaves you without backup, though.”

Jon hums. “There’s a bounty hunter on the moon,” he says. “I’ll hire him if I need help.”

“Which bounty hunter, exactly?” Knol asks warily.

“Jango Fett,” Jon says, perfectly even, and Knol curses instantly.

“Jon Antilles, don’t you _dare_ hire the _Jedi-killer_ for your damned mission,” she says. “I’ll come out there myself and drown you in the swamp—”

Footsteps, and Jon switches off his comm without regret or hesitation. “Han,” he says, glancing up, and rises from the log. “You have everything?”

Han is clutching a ratty bag to his chest, looking a little shifty. “Yeah,” he says, and Jon rather suspects that there’s more than just Han’s belongings in the bag, but—well. He’s certainly not about to tell Han what to do. “Where’s your ship? Is it that cruiser?”

“I don’t have a ship,” Jon says. When Han squints at him in disbelief, Jon sighs through his nose, and says, “I was going to get a room at the inn.”

That, at least, makes Han brighten. “Okay,” he says, and falls into step with Jon, heading back towards the town proper. “Can we get real food, too?”

“Of course.” There is, maybe, a trace of panic bubbling up in Jon's chest, something deep-seated and desperate beneath the certainty that he needs to do _something_. He has no idea what to do with a child, no concept of taking care of anyone long-term. The most he usually manages is finishing a mission, helping people back to somewhere they can get reliable assistance, and then disappearing again. But—Han is going to need things. He’s going to need _Jon_ , at least until Jon can figure out somewhere for him to go that’s safer. Jon's never done anything even vaguely like this before.

But—

Han is talking about sweets he stole on Corellia, gleeful and excited, and some of the wary anger from the swamp has been buried underneath everything else. Jon watches him for a moment, not quite able to help a small smile, and—

He’s never taken a padawan, because he’s always been terrified that he’ll end up just like Dark Woman. But Han isn't his padawan, and might not even be Force-sensitive. There’s no need to worry about training him. It means Jon can relax, and help him without worrying about his own hang-ups, and that’s enough to know.

Jango failed to take the shot.

The knowledge _seethes_ in his chest, something burning and furious and almost guilty, wound through with something like resignation, and as Jango hits the dock, he snarls to himself. Kills the thrusters on his jetpack, then turns, stalking into the raised streets. There's rain threatening, and no one is out, which is almost disappointing; he could use a few low-life smugglers to take his anger out on right now, but—

Jango's breath rasps in his throat, and there's a heat in the pit of his stomach, and he’s _angry_ about it.

Maybe it’s that Jango has hunted katarns before, knows precisely how dangerous they are. Maybe it’s that he arrived just in time to see the thing—twice the size of the katarns the Wookie Dragon Riders use as mounts, if not more—karking _disembowel_ the idiot Jedi, and then the idiot Jedi _keep fighting_ like a mortal wound wasn’t worth more than a passing moment of irritation.

Jango's fought a lot of Jedi. He’s used to the poised swordsmen, the cool bastards too good for a bit of violence, the diplomats who wouldn’t be out of place in any stuffy Senate audience chamber. All of them make him want to put a blaster bolt in the middle of their chest, just to make them _react_. They're not warriors, not the way Mandalorians are warriors, and the fact that people in the galaxy try to draw comparisons makes Jango furious. But—

But this Jedi, somehow, in some way, actually fights like a _warrior_.

There was no pithy banter, even with an opponent who couldn’t understand it, no attempt to draw the creature off or ease it back from violence. No hesitation, no pause, just calculation and action and reaction. A willingness to take a blow that should have been fatal, and a complete, unhesitating focus on defeating the enemy.

That was a hell of a fight. It’s the kind of fight Jango always looks for. Quick, brutal, pushing the fighter to their limits, with even a moment of doubt ending in death. And the Jedi had risen to the challenge in order to protect the kid.

And then, in the aftermath, he’d taken the kid in, and there was no hesitation in that, either.

Ahead of Jango, there are voices, low. An edge of brown-green fabric flickers in the rising breeze, swirled out of the mouth of a narrow, meandering walkway cutting back towards a row of shops. The Jedi is crouched down, listening to the boy he saved, and he’s still got his hood up, is still wrapped almost completely in tattered cloth, but it’s clear all of his attention is on the kid. As Jango watches, the Jedi produces a credit chip, offering it up, and the boy grins, taking it eagerly.

“—remember the room code?” the Jedi is asking as Jango comes to a halt, listening.

“Of course,” the boy says, like he’s insulted the Jedi would think otherwise. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know,” the Jedi says, and there's warmth in his voice. “But try to be back before nightfall. We can find somewhere to eat.”

The boy looks like he’s trying to hide his excitement, full of the same kind of desire to be cool that still trips Boba up all too often. “I guess,” he says, and then, careful, “You're not going to go after those sleemos, are you?”

“The White Worm gang? No. Not unless they come after me first.”

“Okay.” The kid relaxes a little, then says, “You smell like swamp. You should take a bath.”

The Jedi sighs a little, but it mostly sounds amused. “I will. Stay out of the swamp. Don’t get caught.”

That makes the kid grin, and he turns and heads down the walkway at an almost-run. The Jedi watches him go for a long moment, then rises to his feet and turns, facing Jango without hesitation. The drape of his hood hides his face, and the extra folds of his cloak makes if hard to pick out his form, but—

There's enough of a gap for Jango to see torn tunics, a flash of skin beneath. A flash of _scar_ beneath, and there's something hot and heavy in the pit of Jango's stomach that isn't going away.

“Fett,” the Jedi says, not wary, not wavering. Jango knows his own reputation, has cultivated it carefully. If this Jedi fears him, though, even slightly, Jango can't see any trace of it. There's caution, but just like that moment in the cantina, it’s one predator to another.

“Jedi,” Jango says, and stalks forward. His hand twitches towards his blaster, and the Jedi stills, alert, aware, ready to move. Jango's breath rasps in his throat, and he bulls close, grabs the bastard by the neck of his robes, and shoves hard.

The Jedi's back hits the wall, and Jango reaches up, yanks his helmet off. Lets it drop as he steps closer, pushing the Jedi back into the boards, and grabs his hood, wrenching it back. Even that doesn’t make the Jedi move; he just stares at Jango, pale eyes narrowed, dark hair tangled around his face and lank in the humid air. There are scars everywhere on his skin, and Jango takes a breath, presses his thumb to the one that cuts across his lower lip. Surprise flickers in his eyes, and Jango almost wants to laugh. Almost wants to _shake him_ , just for the sheer aggravation of watching him fight and _knowing_ he was a Jedi.

Letting go of his robes, Jango shoves a hand beneath them, finds torn cloth easily. Feels the sharp hitch of breath, and laughs angrily even as his fingers find a wide strip of scar tissue, the exact size and shape of the katarn’s claws.

“You kriffing _bastard_ ,” he snarls, and the Jedi opens his mouth but nothing in Jango wants to hear what he has to say. He isn't thinking about Galidraan, isn't thinking about the True Mandalorians or Death Watch or the Jedi's words on _Slave I_.

All he’s thinking about is the clean stroke that beheaded the katarn, and that moment in the aftermath. Honor for a fallen enemy, but no regret. Not _weakness_ , and Jango presses his fingertips into the wide, stark scar that curls up across the Jedi's ribs, cuts across more marks scattered across his skin. Wants to put his mouth on them, or maybe his _teeth_. Just _wants_ , heady and heavy and full of rage, and he splays his hand across lean muscle, shoves hard until the Jedi is fully pinned, and thinks—

Doesn’t think at all, because the Jedi tips his head and that’s invitation enough. Jango grabs his hair, drags him down into a hard kiss, bruising, _biting_. Feels the gasp, the jerk, but when the Jedi's hands come up they wrap around Jango instead of pushing him away. Don’t pull, don’t grab, and Jango hates the politeness. He jerks the Jedi's hair, shoves into his mouth in an aggressive, aggravated kiss, and bites at those scarred lips until the Jedi starts kissing back. Like he’s been given permission, he presses forward, meeting each of Jango's bruising kisses eagerly, and Jango likes that. Likes it too much, sharp in his chest, and he shoves ragged tunics aside, pulls off the wide sash and lets it drop.

“How the karking hell did you survive that,” he says, almost a growl, and digs his thumb into the katarn’s marks.

The Jedi laughs a little, soft and rough and breathless right against his mouth. “I'm good at surviving,” he says, and the hand on Jango's back curls, tugs. Jango goes with it willingly, pressing himself up against the Jedi and gripping his ribs, fingertips feeling out the deep scars as he fits their mouths together again. Against his back, the Jedi's fingers curl, then spread, dragging down in a long, slow stroke as Jango kisses him, deep and edged with teeth.

Unerringly, his hands find Jango's own scars, hidden beneath the bulk of his armor, and there’s a hitching breath against his mouth. A sound, low, as Jango pulls away to graze his teeth across the indent in his lip, and the Jedi murmurs, “It looks like you are, too.”

Jango doesn’t answer, just gets a hand around his hip and shoves. The Jedi laughs at being shoved back into the wall, a bare rasp of sound, and doesn’t hesitate. He lets Jango crowd him up against the wood, a knee between his thighs, mouth slanting over his, and Jango wants to cover him, wants to keep going and rut against him and strip him down to nothing but bare skin, see all those scars for himself. They're at the edge of the town, though, right in the open, and that should matter a hell of a lot more than it does right now.

“This how you avoid bounty hunters?” Jango demands, tearing their mouths apart, and there's heat coiling in his belly, crawling up his spine with _claws_. It’s hard to think through the roaring want, the bloody, bullheaded desire to get this idiot _jetii_ on his back with Jango's mouth on his skin.

That gets him a flash of teeth, more challenge than smile, full of something dark that makes Jango's dick ache. “I don’t need to avoid bounty hunters,” the Jedi says, and Jango makes a sound of fury, gets his fingers in that mud-splattered hair again and hauls the Jedi down. He’s got inches on Jango, but he yields easily, lets Jango push him back and down. They slide down the wall, hit the ground with Jango on his knees between the Jedi's spread thighs, and like this, at least, Jango has the height advantage. He tips the Jedi's head back, takes his mouth again, and the soft sound against his lips is almost enough to make him dizzy.

“Arrogant bastard,” Jango growls, and the Jedi opens his eyes, blown dark, gaze entirely unrepentant. He raises a cool brow, and Jango pushes him back again, gets a hand on his chest and scrapes his nails across the scarred skin. Watches the Jedi jerk and buck, mouth opening, and fits his own over it, a lazy, sloppy kiss as he twists his fingers tighter in black hair.

“I'm still alive, aren’t I?” the Jedi murmurs, and Jango can't help but snort, turning his head to drag his mouth over a scar that slants across his cheek.

“For now,” he says, makes it a threat, but instead of being appropriately cowed, the Jedi pulls him in tighter, hands sliding down to Jango's ass. Jango grunts, has to catch himself on the wall, and bites the Jedi's throat in retaliation, one sharp pinch of teeth that makes him jerk. His voice breaks on a moan, and Jango has to close his eyes, breathe deep.

He has a Jedi under him, and all he wants is to kiss him more. Could kill him, could draw his blaster or a vibroblade right this instant and cut his throat, but—

Jango doesn’t even know if it would work, if he’d manage it regardless of how close he is right now, and somehow that’s hotter than anything else.

“Is this your clever plan to get close enough to kill me?” the Jedi asks, and Jango pulls his head back with a tug at his hair, kisses the sharp line of his jaw and gets his teeth over the vulnerable beat of his pulse, quick beneath the skin.

Gently, carefully, he presses his tongue to it, then his teeth, and feels the Jedi shudder against him. “It’s working, isn't it?” he asks, and the Jedi closes his eyes and moans quietly, one hand going to the back of Jango's head, pulling him in, tugging him close. Jango chuckles smugly, applies his teeth to the scarred skin. Burn scars, here, pale against the rest of his skin, off-center but curving around towards his chin, and Jango traces them with his mouth, strokes his free hand down the Jedi's chest, firm and slow.

With a low, rough sound, the Jedi grips the back of Jango's head, his shoulder blade. A foot hooks over Jango's, a thigh trying to pull him closer, and Jango nips, gets a jerk in response, and then catches the Jedi's mouth again, tilting his head back, bearing down, and his soft, uneven breaths are too appealing, too hot. Jango wants to press him flat, work his way down his body, take him apart.

He thinks of the Jedi in the swamp, landing on one knee as the katarn fell. The green glow of his lightsaber, the shadow of his cloak, the blood on his skin even as his expression was so steady and certain. A fighter, dangerous, able to use tricks Jango has never seen any Jedi use before, but—

Jango wants it. He wants _him_ , and it’s stupid and reckless in a way Jango doesn’t let himself be, but he lifts his head, turns the tight grip on the Jedi's hair into a gentle drag of fingers, and watches those pale eyes slide open to look up at him.

 _Let’s get a room_ , he wants to say, but as he opens his mouth to make the offer, thunder rolls.

Five seconds of warning is all Jango gets before the sky opens up and absolutely _drenches_ them.

Jango growls, the rain so torrential that he can hardly see the Jedi's face from inches away, and despite what all those terrible holos Zam watches would have Jango believe, there's absolutely nothing romantic about suddenly being soggy, freezing, and in danger of drowning.

Kriff, but Jango hates swamp planets.

From under him, still pressed against the wall, the Jedi snorts. He glances up at the heavy clouds, then immediately drops his eyes when the rain proves too heavy even for Jedi idiocy, and says with a sort of equanimous resignation, “Even the chrysalides won't be out in this, at least.”

What Jango feels is _not_ a flare of regret. He doesn’t give a damn if the Jedi isn't going out to pick more fights with things bigger than him. All of this was a bad idea anyway, and Jango has _terrible_ taste in men, and—

The Jedi watches him shove to his feet, propped against the boards with one knee pulled up, his tunics slipping off of him. His skin is weathered brown and scattered with pale scars, rain sliding down his chest as he studies Jango, apparently oblivious to the picture he makes. It’s not an artful pose, isn't meant to be alluring, but that just makes Jango want to haul him up and into the nearest bed even _more_.

Jango closes his eyes. Terrible taste. That’s all this is. He saw the fight and that was attractive enough to make him think this kriffing hobo Jedi bastard was someone he needed to fuck.

Deliberately, determinedly, he ignores the knowledge that if the Jedi offered up his room key right this moment, Jango would take him up on it instantly and without regret.

Bending down, Jango picks up his helmet, tucks it under his arm. “Don’t get in the way of my bounty,” he warns the Jedi, who doesn’t move, doesn’t answer. He just observes Jango for a long moment, silent, soaked, and then sits up, leaning forward to rest an arm on his raised knee.

“Be careful in the swamp,” is all he says, and Jango turns and walks away, because if he stays he’s going to do something stupid.

Well. Stupider.


	4. Chapter 4

“ _There_ you are!” Boba hisses, scrambling down out of one of the trees growing up through the covered part of the walkway. “I was looking all over for you, but those jerks in your gang wouldn’t tell me anything—”

“Of course they wouldn’t,” Han says, annoyed, but at least he stops, soaked through but apparently unbothered by it. “They got scared and left me in the _swamp_.”

Boba stops, frowning. That’s not exactly _surprising_ , given that gangs aren’t usually nice, and the White Worms have a reputation for pettiness, but the fact that Han is here means he managed to survive, at least.

“You're okay?” he asks, looking Han over, because he saw all the signatures Jon was worried about. There were a lot of them, and knowing that there are monsters out there, where Han was pretty much abandoned, makes him contemplate tossing a few thermal detonators into the White Worm gang’s ship. He can do it without getting caught; Jango made _sure_ of that.

“I'm fine,” Han says, like it’s a challenge, and looks away. The tips of his ears are red. “What do you want?”

“You still have to help me,” Boba reminds him. “With my dad and the Jedi, remember?” And being around him and Jango will keep the smugglers from grabbing Han again, even if that’s just a side benefit. “I said I’d help you meet him if you did.”

“I don’t need your help anymore,” Han says, smug. “Jon saved me when that monster attacked, and he’s going to take me with him when he leaves. I get to _stay_ with the Jedi. You can't beat that.”

Boba scoffs, not letting himself dwell on the lack of leverage. It’s fine; a bounty hunter never lets on when he’s lost the advantage. That’s what Jango always says. “I don’t need to beat it. My dad has a ship, and Jon doesn’t, right? So if he likes Jon, he can take you off-planet. _And_ you get to meet _Jango Fett_.”

That, at least, sways Han. Boba can see him wavering, frowning a little as he mulls it over. “But doesn’t your dad hate Jedi?” he asks suspiciously.

“Yeah, but he likes this one,” Boba says, confident that he’s right. His dad didn’t shoot Jon as he was leaving the ship, and when he got back after the rain started, he was all broody and thoughtful, so clearly he didn’t shoot him in the swamp, either.

“Yeah, well, he’s really cool, so who wouldn’t?” Han mutters, and then eyes Boba. “Did you know Jedi can turn into ghosts?”

Boba blinks. “What?” he asks, confused. “ _Ghosts_?”

“Yeah,” Han says, and he’s smug about this, too. It makes Boba scowl at him. “The monster tried to hit him with its tail and it just went _through_.”

Excitement curls in Boba's chest, and he grins. “Really?” he asks delightedly. “I saw him teleport, but he can turn _intangible_?” That’s definitely not a thing most Jedi can do; Boba would have heard about it.

“He can _teleport_?” Han demands. “But he made a log float to get us back to town. Why didn’t he just teleport if he knew how?”

Boba shrugs, not about to question how Jedi work. Zam Wesell was telling him about ones with weird powers, and Boba hadn’t thought she was telling the truth, but _clearly_ she was. It’s really cool. Mandalorians are the strongest warriors in the galaxy, but…maybe Jedi are close second.

Besides, Jon being able to do all these things will _definitely_ distract Jango, and probably make him more agreeable whether he gets a date out of it or a fight, so when Boba talks about Ponds he won't be so stubborn. Maybe Boba should be worried about his dad going up against someone who can teleport and phase through things, but—Jango's the best bounty hunter in the known universe. He’ll be fine. And Jon is a dangerous, but Boba's got a read on him; he won't kill Boba's dad, no matter what he says. For Boba’s sake _and_ for Jango's, because he feels guilty for Galidraan, Boba is sure. He saw that clearly.

Han huffs, but he sits down on the bench that wraps around the tree, and doesn’t protest when Boba drops down next to him. “It’s dumb that Jon doesn’t have a ship,” he mutters, which is more or less agreement with the whole plan, so Boba grins.

“I think Jedi aren’t allowed to own things,” he says, wrinkling his nose, because he remembers his dad mentioning something about that.

“So he doesn’t have to _own_ it, just borrow it,” Han retorts, but he swings his legs, glancing at Boba sidelong. “Why are you trying to make your dad date a Jedi?”

Maybe, in some small part of Boba's brain, there's the hope that Jon will look at him, tell him he has Force powers, and teach him how to teleport too. But Boba isn't about to _say_ that, and especially not to Han. It’s not logical, _and_ a Mandalorian shouldn’t want to be a Jedi. Boba doesn’t, though; he just wants to be able to do cool things without a jetpack.

“Because I'm trying to distract him,” he says. “Long enough to get him to agree with something. Because once he agrees, he can't take it back. It’s the _law_.”

Han frowns, like this is an impossible statement to understand. “Why does _Jango Fett_ care about laws?” he asks. “He’s a bounty hunter.”

Boba rolls his eyes. “Not _Republic_ laws,” he says. “Mandalorian laws.” Hesitates, for a moment, over what to say, but—Han is a coconspirator, so telling him should be fine as long as Boba leaves out the details.

“I'm a clone,” he says, maybe a little quietly, but—Han is the first person he’s ever told. “A clone of my dad. And there are more clones, too, but—I was the first one, and I'm the only one Dad calls his son. And it’s not _fair_ , because they're my little brothers and I have to look out for them. Dad _should_ call them his sons, too, because he’s done everything that Mandalorian law says a parent should do, but he won't even think of them as _people_.”

“But that’s not your problem, is it?” Han asks, giving Boba a faintly wary look. “He thinks _you're_ a person. And he’s training you, and you're definitely his son, so what does it matter?”

“It _matters_ ,” Boba tells him, annoyed. “They're my brothers. They call me big brother, and they're Mandalorian, and they should be more to Dad than just clones!”

It twists in his stomach, sometimes, the thought that his dad looks at Ponds and the other clones and doesn’t see people. Just tools made to look like him. And he _knows_ , without doubt or hesitation, that his dad loves him, but sometimes Boba has to wonder if that will ever change. If someday something will shift, and then Jango will look at him and not see a person, either.

It scares him in ways it probably shouldn’t. But Boba can't help it, even when he thinks he should know better.

“They're really that important?” Han asks, and when Boba glances over, he just looks confused, a little wary, like this is something he suspects he should know but doesn’t. Boba blinks at him, confused by the question, and Han shrugs, looking away. He kicks his heels hard against the side of the bench, and says, “If the White Worms were in trouble, I wouldn’t help them. I’d just make sure I was okay.”

“Really?” Boba asks, not entirely sure how to take that. “None of them? What about your dad? Or your mom?”

Han scowls, and kicks his feet harder. “I don’t have one,” he says, and then, abruptly, “So what do you even need my help with? Your dad already likes Jon, so it’s fine, right?”

The change in subject isn't one Boba wants to accept, but he’s pretty sure Han isn't going to talk about anything else, so he grudgingly allows it. “Yeah, but he doesn’t _know_ he likes him. I'm gonna make him realize it.”

“How?” Han asks, wary. “And what if _Jon_ doesn’t like _him_?”

“Jon likes him already.” Boba is _mostly_ sure of that. It doesn’t really matter, though. He just needs Jango distracted enough to give in and admit that the clones are his sons, even offhand, and then Boba will _officially_ have several million little brothers. “Besides, I'm not going to _force_ them to do anything. I just want them to spend time together.”

Han relaxes a little. “Oh,” he says. “Like on dates?”

“Yeah.” Boba grins. “Jon owes me and my dad dinner, so when he brings it over, you're going to help me set them up to have it alone.”

There's a moment of consideration, and then, bright and quick, Han grins back. “Like playing distraction,” he says confidently. “I can do that.”

Boba has a plan, and it’s _definitely_ going to work. He’s sure of it.

“Are you sure this is all right?” Jon asks, maybe a little doubtfully, as he eyes the ship they're approaching.

“Of course,” Boba says confidently. “He likes the bird dish a lot, and extra spicy is better.”

That isn't anywhere close to what Jon meant, but it’s clear enough that Boba doesn’t understand Jon's hesitation, so he strangles a sigh and follows Boba around the bend of the path towards _Slave I_. The back of his neck prickles, and he had no idea why he agreed to do this rather than simply buying Boba and Jango's food and sending it back with the boy.

But Boba had insisted that he should eat with them, and given that Han acts like a feral cat and gets offended whenever Jon tries to feed him, Jon's learned that it’s better to make himself scarce around meal-times. If Han seeks him out, he’s allowed to buy food for them, but otherwise it ends with a huffy Han and moody eating.

Bringing dinner to the man he kissed just over twenty-four hours ago is potentially not the best way out, though.

“All right,” Jon allows, and pauses at a safe distance while Boba disarms the defenses with a few taps at his comm. There are crates of supplies waiting to be loaded, and the ship’s ramp is down, gleaming in the bright sun. The rain cleared up overnight, but it left everything with a washed-clean brightness, and the tiny port isn't an exception.

“Dad should be back soon,” Boba says, and sits down on the ramp, carefully settling the bags of food beside him.

Jon's last memory of Jango is being thoroughly pinned to the wall, expecting to get stabbed, and instead getting kissed within an inch of his life. His mouth still burns like he can feel the imprint of Jango's lips there, or the press of his broad body. He hasn’t been kissed in—

Well. A long time. The life Jon leads doesn’t allow for such things. But he certainly hasn’t been kissed like _that_ in many, many years. If ever.

Pulling his hood forward farther to hide his face, Jon vaults up on top of one of the crates, crossing his legs beneath himself and settling. He feels…twitchy. Uncomfortably so. It’s not a reaction to danger, because he could deal with that easily, but—

Jon doesn’t know if he should be here. Jango kissed him, but that doesn’t mean he has any desire to be reminded of it. He’d certainly left quickly enough, once the rain started, and he hadn’t looked back. It’s possible he considers the whole thing a mistake, and Jon showing up again, especially in the company of his son, will just make things worse.

“What’s it like?” Boba asks, suddenly enough to make Jon twitch. When he raises his head, Boba is watching him curiously, and he looks so much like his father that it’s almost unnerving. When Jon freezes, not entirely sure where this line of questioning is going, Boba rolls his eyes and says, “The Jedi Temple. The place where the kids the Jedi find grow up.”

“The crèche,” Jon says automatically, and then hesitates. “I wouldn’t know,” he offers after a moment. “My Master found and raised me without ever sending me to the Temple.”

“Oh,” Boba says, and grins, digging into one of the fried tubers in the bag. “Like a Mandalorian. She decided you were hers, so she raised you to be just like her.”

Jon's throat closes up, and for a moment he can't breathe. _No_ , he wants to say, _not like a Mandalorian at all_ , because in Mandalorian culture children are a precious thing, and taking a child on means something that it didn’t to Dark Woman.

Dark Woman did want to raise him to be just like her, but not the way Boba means it.

He curls his fingers around his forearm, breathing in. Breathes out a moment later, letting the press of unease and old fear and remembered pain slide out into the encompassing Force, and shakes his head.

“Not quite,” he says. “I had potential, and she wanted to explore that.”

Wanted to see, Nico has said, what could be made of a Jedi raised entirely outside the Temple, started from a young age with her own training methods, but—Nico hates Dark Woman almost as much as he does Dooku, and Jon is never entirely certain whether to believe what he claims.

“Is that why you can do weird things?” Boba asks, glancing up at him. “She must know even _more_ —”

“Boba.”

Jon jerks, wrenching around to face Jango where he stands at the edge of the landing pad. He’s looking at his son, gaze pointed, but—

His eyes flicker to Jon for a brief moment, sweep down from his hood to his boots, and Jon suddenly can't breathe for far more pleasant reasons.

“What?” Boba asks, annoyed, and Jango sighs, rueful.

“Leave it alone,” is all he says, stalking forward to drop a box of parts at Boba's side. “You con him into feeding you?”

“And you,” Boba says, unrepentant, and shoves another tuber in his mouth. “We went to that one food stall you liked.”

“There better be that red stuff in that bag,” Jango warns, but he’s smiling a little, and Boba huffs.

“It smells bad,” he says, like that isn't exactly what he got Jango.

“What’s that matter to you? You're not the one eating it.”

“Yeah, but I have to smell _you_ eat it.”

Jon can't quite manage a chuckle, but he ducks his head to hide the edge of a smile that wants to show, hears an annoyed sound.

“Quit laughing, Jedi,” Jango warns. “Or I’ll give him up to you, and _you_ can deal with him.”

“It’s Jon,” he says, mild, and lifts his head, meeting Jango's eyes. “And if you give him to me, I’ll corrupt him with my Jedi ways. Inner peace and self-knowledge and control.”

“Control, was it?” Jango asks, still watching him, and Jon has half a second of confusion before the words truly register. Heat flashes through him, and he ducks his head a little, letting the edge of his hood hide most of his face.

“Jedi prize it highly,” he says, a little roughly.

“Like sniping, right?” Boba asks, oblivious, and leans over to poke at the box of parts. Apparently satisfied, he glances up, then says, “Jon got food, too. He can eat with us, can't he, Dad?”

“When did you adopt a _Jetii_?” Jango asks, sounding annoyed. He reaches down, scuffing Boba's hair, and then glances at Jon. Over the sound of Boba's protests, he asks, “No kid?”

Jon hums. “I think he’s laying traps for the White Worm members who left him in the swamp.”

Jango snorts, then tips his head. “He can stay, but he’s not coming on the ship,” he warns Boba, who rolls his eyes but nods.

“Fine, Dad—”

“Boba!”

Han’s voice. Jon raises his head, turns quickly, and is entirely startled to find Han standing on the edge of the planking that leads back towards town. He’s waving urgently, and Jon rises with a frown, leaping down from the crates. Before he can take more than a step, though, Boba is up on his feet and bolting past him, headed right for Han. They practically crash together, and Han is grinning like he’s just gotten away with something, grabbing Boba's arm and pulling. Boba spares half a second to turn back towards his father and wave, but then they're off, scrambling down the walkway and around the bend.

Jon hadn’t even been aware that Han _knew_ Boba.

There's a long moment of silence, and then a quiet snort. “I think we’ve been abandoned,” Jango says, and picks up the bag of food. He looks through it, then steals a tuber and approaches to set it on the crate between him and Jon, gaze steady.

Jon breathes through the memory of Jango pressing him into the wall, Jango's mouth on his skin. It’s harder than it should be. “Han has my room key,” he says. “They’ll probably prefer that to listening to us talk.”

“Is that what we’re going to be doing?” Despite the words, Jango sorts through the containers, opening them and checking the contents. The sight of the one Boba picked for him makes him smile a little, quick and crooked, and he pulls it out, then leans back against the crates to start eating.

Jon isn't sure whether that means Jango wants to pick a fight or kiss him again, but—he hopes it’s the latter. Attraction in more than a passing sense isn't something common, but it makes his heartbeat a little quick, makes him extra aware of himself and of Jango, and it’s not unpleasant. He glances at Jango, wondering which way he’s going to take things, and then decides that he can simply find out later. For now, a meal shared is enough, and he pulls himself back up onto the crate, crossing one leg and letting the other dangle as he finds his own meal.

“Thought you’d be the type to live on the blandest food you could find,” Jango says, eyeing the fiery green sauce cloaking the vegetables. “Bread and water and all that. Or protein rations.”

Jon keeps his eyes on his food. “Rations travel well,” he says. “But I like real food, too.” A lot of his time is spent out in wild territory, and he tries to keep his time in towns to a minimum; he’s cooked plenty of his own food over the years.

Jango grunts, apparently accepting that. “Who was your Master?” he asks abruptly. “Someone I would have heard of?”

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He stares blankly at his meal for a moment, weighing his response. Dark Woman is one of the most dangerous Jedi in the Order, and Jon knows that better than anyone. She taught him, after all, groomed him to follow in her steps, but—separate. Apart from the Order, able to operate alone and then vanish again, rarely communicating with any other Jedi. She’s not like that, though, has ties to Council Members and still goes on missions for them. She would be easier to find than Jon, if Jango was out to kill her.

But Jango hasn’t given any indication that he wants to hunt down one old spy, regardless of her skills. Jon assesses the edges of his desperate loyalty to the woman who taught him, roughly equal to his fear of her, and then closes his eyes, breathing out.

He’ll defend Dark Woman if he has to. Even if it means facing Jango. But he hopes it won't.

“She doesn’t have a name,” he says, and when Jango shoots him a narrow look, he shakes his head. “Truth. Master gave it up a few years after she was Knighted, in a show of her devotion to the Force. She truly possesses nothing, not even herself. But…some people call her the Dark Woman.”

For a long moment, Jango doesn’t move. “Haven’t heard of her,” he says finally, suspicious.

“Most people don’t,” Jon says. “That’s how she likes it.”

Jango's grunt is on the edge of disgust. “Spies,” he says, and takes another bite.

“Bounty hunters,” Jon says, perfectly mild, and doesn’t let himself do more than raise a brow when Jango gives him a dark look. He picks at his food, taking a few more bites, and tries not to dwell on the near future, what’s coming. There are prickles down his spine, something unsettled that’s sunk its claws into his nerves. Not just Jango, but—his presence and the confusion it brings certainly doesn’t help.

“Found any more monsters?” Jango asks after a few long minutes of silence. When Jon glances up at him, he’s looking away, gaze fixed on the swamp beyond the edge of the landing pad. With evening setting in, the shadows are thick, and visibility is poor except in certain lines of sight. Jon likes the press of trees, the colonnades of them from certain angles, the age of the whole place and the connectedness of it as it grows and changes like one single organism. But he certainly understands Jango's clear unease with everything. To a hunter, it looks like a trap.

“No,” he says quietly. “I went looking for the pair of vornskrs this morning, but only found where they’d made kills. There were strange tracks in the swamp, though. I think it might be the war worm.”

Jango pulls a face, setting his empty container aside. “The Sith never figured out that the best way to kill a Jedi was just to grab a slugthrower,” he says, disgusted.

“Likely because it could easily be the best way to kill a Sith, as well,” Jon points out, amused despite himself. The Mandalorians overall have no special connection to the Force, no abilities beyond those of their species, but they’ve never hesitated to go up against the Jedi, even for a moment. There’s something admirable in that, even if Jon wished they wouldn’t.

Jango's mouth curves, and he looks at Jon, gaze sliding over him with an almost tangible weight, and Jon abruptly feels too warm, too aware of himself. He lets his hood fall forward, focuses on keeping his hands steady, and doesn’t let himself look up even when Jango says, “But it wouldn’t kill you.”

“It might,” Jon says simply. He knows his own limits. “From a distance, without warning, I would be caught off guard like anyone else.” A flicker of uncertainty makes him pause, and he considers for a moment, weighing the idea.

“What?” Jango asks, eyes narrowed. “That healing you do—it’s not automatic.”

“No,” Jon allows. “But…there are instincts a Jedi can cultivate, to be aware of things around them. You would have to be very far away, and very calm.”

Jango makes a sound of irritation, and a moment later there’s a hand on Jon's knee, a tight grip sliding up his thigh. Jon sucks in a startled breath, jerking his head up just in time for Jango's fingers to catch the edges of his hood. He shoves it back, and Jon's heart is somewhere high in his throat, but he still doesn’t move.

“You always go around telling bounty hunters how to kill you?” Jango demands, and the drag of his fingers over Jon's nape makes Jon contain a shiver.

“You asked,” Jon says, and the hand on his thigh tightens, pulls. Clumsily, Jon drops his food to the side, then shifts, and when Jango drags him forward to the edge of the crate he has room to step right between Jon's legs. Jon catches his shoulders, wary, uncertain what he’s allowed to touch, but there's muscle beneath his hands, a lack of concealing armor. Jango is warm, and the grip of his hand around the back of Jon's neck is firm enough to spark heat all up and down Jon's spine.

“I'm a bounty hunter, unless you missed that.” Jango eyes him, like he’s assessing, weighing, and Jon tries not to shiver at the look, the heady sort of want he can feel like another weight against his senses. It’s _sharp_ , almost angry, but there's a genuine heat to it, a touch of challenge and desire that can't be faked.

“Believe me, Jango,” Jon says, and it rasps in his throat. “I didn’t.”

With a sound of rough amusement, Jango pulls him down, kisses him hard. The angle is awkward, and Jon is bent almost double, but Jango doesn’t let up, holds him in place and deepens the kiss and presses his lips apart to tangle their tongues. It makes Jon shiver, and he can't help the soft sound that breaks from him as Jango's fingers drag over the inside of his leg, high up on his thigh. They trace lazy circles, just enough pressure to make Jon want to squirm as they inch higher, and he tugs at Jango's shoulders instinctively, pulls him in another bare inch—

“You're going to give me a crick in my neck,” Jango says, pulling back, and before Jon can do more than blink there are hands on his hips, a sharp tug. He jerks and tightens his grip on Jango's shoulders again as he’s dragged right off the crate, but Jango doesn’t drop him. His hands hook under Jon's thighs, and he shoves him up against the metal, pinning him there. Jon gasps, and Jango smirks against his lips, slanting his mouth over Jon's in a slow, teasing kiss.

“Like that?” he asks, and Jon curls a leg around the back of his thigh, wraps his arms around Jango's neck, and drags him into another, deeper kiss, hungry for that sharp humor, wanting the way that Jango wants him.

It’s been a very long time, and Jon wants, too.

Slowly, carefully, Jango lets him slide down, and Jon catches himself, back still pressed to the crate, Jango curled over his body. Hands slide up beneath his tunics, palms flattening against his skin, and Jango makes a low, intent sound as Jon's sash pulls away. He drags it free, drops it at their feet, then shoves Jon's cloak off to follow it. “How many damned layers do you need?” he asks, and Jon tries not to laugh, tangles his fingers in dark hair and tips his head back as Jango's mouth skims his throat.

“Enough to make sure you're committed,” he says, and Jango laughs, setting his teeth against Jon's skin.

“If I find a chastity belt under here, I'm going to dump you in the swamp,” he says, and Jon rolls his hips against Jango’s, lets Jango feel the way he’s getting hard, hears the ragged sound Jango makes in response. Jango is half-hard already, and Jon _wants_. Wants his mouth on him, or Jango inside of him, or all of it, and can't even begin to think what he wants _most_.

“Jedi aren’t celibate,” he says, and can't help a hiss as Jango sucks a mark into his throat, rolls the skin between his teeth and then lets go, mouth sliding up to kiss the underside of Jon's jaw. Jon shudders, hands twisting in his hair, trying to pull him closer as Jango grinds their cocks together.

“Good thing for me,” Jango murmurs, fingers sliding under the waistband of Jon's pants, stroking over sensitive skin. Jon jerks, shuddering, and catches Jango's waist, then pulls him around. Presses him up against the crate, then drops to his knees right between Jango's boots. The sound of Jango's curse makes him smile, and he traces his hands up Jango's legs, touch just light enough to tease.

“It will be,” he says, and leans in, kissing his stomach, the edge of a hip bone. Jango breathes out another curse, ragged Mando’a, and then his hands are in Jon's hair, twisting tight. With careful fingers, Jon pushes up his shirt, and Jango agreeably lets go of him long enough to strip it off, toss it to the side. Then one hand is back in Jon's hair, the other cupping his jaw as a thumb presses over his lips.

Jon doesn’t hesitate. He opens his mouth, takes Jango's finger in and lets Jango press his thumb against his tongue. Sucks at it lightly, in mimicry of what he really wants, and Jango's breath shudders out of his lungs. He pulls Jon's head back by the hair, watching with dark eyes as Jon moans at the tug, at the tight grip, at the way Jango holds him still and just watches.

“Kriff,” Jango mutters, and lets go of Jon's jaw, pulling his thumb free. He smears it across Jon's mouth, pressing on the scar that edges over his bottom lip, and then drags him forward. Jon goes eagerly, kissing the start of the trail of dark hair leading down, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Jango's stomach, his ribs, the curve of his hip where his pants rest low enough to reveal it. Jango lets him explore, and the hitches of his breath, the tightening of his fingers whenever Jon finds a sensitive spot are like a reward, something to wring out of him.

It’s been a long time since Jon has allowed himself something like this, longer still since he’s wanted it as much as he does now. But he likes it, likes the strain of Jango's body as he tries not to move, the desperate curl of his hand in Jon's hair. His hips hitch, just a little, whenever Jon grazes his cock, and Jon thinks of that cock in his mouth, Jango thrusting into his throat, and has to strangle a groan as his hands go tight on Jango's thighs.

Jango’s cock is hard, a clear line in his pants, thick and hot, and Jon dips lower, presses his mouth to it through the heavy fabric and hears Jango's moan. Smiles a little, pleased, and kisses it gently, dragging his lips up the covered curve of the shaft as he reaches for the button. Undoes it—

Behind him, something huge and Dark and looming takes a step, and _growls_.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s the like world snaps back into unpleasant focus. There’s a roil of Darkness at Jon's back, a curse from Jango that’s far less pleasant than all the previous ones. He lunges left, and Jon goes right, an outflung hand calling his lightsaber into his grip. The wood of the hilt hits his palm, and he rises—

Something massive hits him from the side, huge and heavy and bowling him right off his feet. Jon goes down with a cry of warning, because it’s not the thing that growled, but something else entirely, unseen and unfelt. Huge jaws snap in front of his face, and Jon scrabbles for his lightsaber, twists, slams a hand into the beast’s side.

With a snarl, the thing goes flying off, and Jon rolls up into a crouch, takes one look at what attacked him, and curses.

The vornskr, twice the size it should be, with a mouthful of razor teeth dripping green, climbs back to its feet, shaking itself, and advances with a snarl, long tail lashing. Jon eyes it, not entirely sure that it will have the usual paralyzing venom and not something nastier, given that a Sith twisted the creature so much already. He isn't willing to test it; Force healing can only do so much, and vornskrs are designed to hunt Jedi.

“Fakking hell,” Jango snarls, and a moment later his back almost collides with Jon's as he recoils from the other vornskr, both of them crouched and ready to spring. But—

Jon breathes in. Focuses, pushing aside the frustration and irritation that want to settle in his chest, and breathes out. Vornskrs hunt Force-sensitives. It’s no wonder why these two turned up hunting him.

“They won't go after you if you don’t attack them,” he says, low. “I’ll lead them away—”

Jango growls. “Get karked. You were about to put your mouth on my dick. The sooner we deal with them, the sooner we can get back to that.”

With a quiet snort, Jon tips his head, eyeing the burn of the vornskr’s unearthly red eyes. “Aren’t there more pressing things to think about right now?”

Jango laughs, and it’s rough and almost vicious. He reaches back, grabbing Jon's arm, and says, “You going to take down that monster, Jedi?”

Jon eyes the vornskr, then huffs in amusement. “Are you, Mandalorian?” he counters.

“Only if you don’t get in my way.” A tightening of Jango's grip is Jon's only warning; in a blur, Jango wrenches around, dragging Jon around in the opposite direction, and Jon takes the opening without hesitation. He throws himself at the other vornskr, lightsaber leading, but the beast is too fast. He dodges around him, tail lashing, and Jon twists, has just enough concentration to let his body go insubstantial in a rush. The tail passes through him, then snapping jaws, and Jon manages to hold it for one more second, then loses his grip on the technique, staggers a step, and leaps. His foot hits the vornskr’s back, and he flips over its head, green blade lashing down.

In the same moment, a blaster fires twice in quick succession, and Jango hits the ground as the vornskr flattens him. He slams the butt of the weapon into its face, and Jon leaps back, raises a hand, and reaches for one of the smaller crates sitting on the landing pad. Even as his vornskr lunges, the crate goes flying, slamming into the one on top of Jango and hurling it to the side.

Instantly, Jango twists to his feet, raises his blaster, and takes three shots, but Jon doesn’t have time to see if any of them hit. He dodges sharply, flips his lightsaber around, and ducks as the beast snaps at his throat. The green blade skims its side, and it snarls furiously, flesh bubbling and smoothing over to hide the wound a moment later. Jon grits his teeth, leaps back, and flings a hand up, reaching for the threads of the Force that flow through the surrounding greenery. There's nothing close, but the trees and trailing vines at the edge of the port start to shift, reaching, eager. Jon doesn’t even glance at them, keeps his eyes focused on the vornskr as it stalks him, and he retreats—

“Jon!”

A blaster fires, and in the same moment Jon leaps back, ducking low. The second vornskr passes over his head, and the sweep of its tail skims his cheek, makes his whole face go numb as it rips open skin. Jon staggers, feels the spreading poison and the sudden wash if hot blood, and snaps a hand up to his face. Practically wrenches the healing through the wound, burning out the venom, and catches the drag of claws on gravel half a second before it’s too late. He lunges backwards, just missing the snap of the vornskr’s heavy jaws, and stabs upward.

Too fast for any normal animal, the vornskr wrenches to the side, dodging the blade of his lightsaber, and pounces.

Jon goes down, takes claws to the shoulder with a bloom of blood, and the vornskr grabs for his throat—

A blue blaster bolt hits it right in the side of the head, throwing it off him, and Jon rolls upright just in time to throw himself in the way of the second as it lunges for Jango. It twists to the side, lands hard and lunges back in to grab, and Jon leaps for the edge of the landing pad, leading it towards the swamp. It follows with a spray of stone, launching itself off the edge of the landing pad, and Jon hits the trunk of a tree and stays. Watches it come closer, dragging his sense of the Force all around himself, and Jango fires again, the first one back on its feet, but there's no time to look. Jon watches the vornskr leap right for him, waits, holds—

Drops, space folding around him as the branches and vines snatch the vornskr right out of the air. He reappears above it, falling, and brings his lightsaber down hard. The vornskr tries to struggle, tries to wrench around, but it’s thoroughly tangled, and Jon's lightsaber cleaves right through its neck.

It drops, and Jon flips, kicks off the tree and redirects, landing hard on the stone as the body drops into the brackish water with a splash. His head spins, and his shoulder throbs; he presses a hand to it, viciously burns out the poison with a flare of healing, and rises. Takes a step just as the remaining creature tackles Jango bodily—

The hiss of a vibroblade drives upwards into its chest, just as the blaster fires again. Jango rolls out from underneath it as it staggers, comes up on one knee and takes aim, and fires again, six shots in quick succession. They all hit true, and the vornskr crumples, twitching.

“Kriff,” Jango mutters, and rises, expression wary. He’s bleeding, bare chest marked with blood, and Jon's breath catches a little at the sight of him. Glancing over at him, Jango jerks his head at the vornskr, and says, “Take the head. I don’t trust the damned thing not to get back up.”

Jon lets out a rueful breath, inclining his head, and approaches carefully. One sweep of his blade severs the beast’s head, and he deactivates his lightsaber, then drops to one knee, checking its claws. There's blood on them, a strange, unnatural sheen, and he glances up at Jango, eyes the wound in his side that’s still dripping red.

“I think their claws have poison on them,” he says. “I can stop it from spreading, but it will leave a scar.”

Jango snorts. “Killing a pair of Sith beasts? Seems like a good thing to have a scar from,” he says, and as Jon rises to his feet Jango takes three long steps, closing the distance between them. His hand goes to Jon's face, and Jon stills as his thumb traces the new scar that cuts up from his cheekbone towards his temple.

When he meets Jango's eyes, they're dark, focused in a way that makes it very, very hard to breathe.

“You’ve got some fancy tricks, even for a Jedi,” he says, and that tone is almost dangerous, nearly a warning.

Jon smiles just a little, and the beat of his pulse is still quick with adrenaline, something curled low and sharp in his stomach. Want, he thinks, and it’s almost surprising. Instead of retreating, he steps closer, until he can feel the heat of Jango's body against his own, and brings a hand up, pressing it over the deep gouges across his ribs.

“Does that offend you, Jango?” he asks quietly, and hears the rasp in Jango's breath that says it doesn’t. Careful, as gently as he can, he drags his fingertips over the wound, eases torn flesh back together and draws the poison out. It makes Jango suck in a pained breath, but he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter, and when Jon lifts his hand there’s a new scar curled across his skin, no trace of the wound remaining.

Jon glances up, opens his mouth to apologize for the pain, but before he can so much as form the first word, Jango grabs him. Wrenches him in, making them collide bodily, and slams his mouth to Jon's. It’s a bruising kiss, deep, and Jon gasps before he can help himself, grabs Jango's shoulders as he’s pushed backwards. Jango doesn’t let him up, fists a hand in his hair to hold his head in place as he walks Jon back, and Jon's boots hit metal, making him stumble. Without pause, Jango hauls him up, practically grinds them together as he lifts Jon with an arm beneath his ass, and takes three steps up the ramp before they're falling.

Jon hits the decking just inside the ship on his back, the hand that was in his hair cupping his head to protect it, and grunts as Jango practically tumbles down on top of him. A knee presses up between his thighs, and Jon jerks, only to have Jango shove him down flat, rise up on his hands and knees over him. He pulls the hand from Jon's hair, catches Jon's chin instead, and tips his head back like he’s studying the scars, the rawness of Jon's mouth, the way he can't quite fill his lungs, and then mutters a curse.

“Robes off,” he orders, and doesn’t wait for Jon to obey, just grabs tattered cloth and hauls it off. The worn fabric tears, the vornskr’s claws finally doing what the katarn’s weren’t able to manage, but Jon can't even bring himself to care. He pushes up just enough to get the sleeves off, and Jango lets the layers fall against the deck, spread out as wide as they’ll go.

For a moment, Jango doesn’t move, staring down at Jon with a strange slant to his expression. Jon hesitates instead of reaching for him, a flicker of self-consciousness rising as he realizes what Jango is looking at. He’s scarred, lines etched into his skin like patchwork, and he’s _seen_ people’s reactions, learned his lesson quickly about stripping down in front of most civilians, even most Jedi.

“This one,” Jango says, and his fingers skim the newest scars, the vornskr’s claws imprinted in Jon's skin. A moment later, he finds the longest, drags his knuckles down the broad, pale line that almost bisects Jon's chest. Jon shivers despite himself, swallowing a gasp, and can't quite manage to meet Jango's gaze. He turns his head, eyes closing, and wants to bring up an arm to hide his face, wants to roll out from under Jango and pull his cloak back on—

Jango's mouth, hot and soft, follows the line his fingers trace, and Jon can't help the sound that’s dragged from his throat, low and ragged. He grabs for Jango's shoulders, not sure if he wants to push him away or pull him in, and feels the smirk against his skin. Jango drags his mouth across the scars from the katarn, right down to Jon's hip, and bites at the sharp edge of his hipbone, pinching skin between his teeth and rolling it with his tongue. Jon jerks, groans, and Jango's free hand slides between his legs, cups his hardening cock.

“Kriff, look at you,” he murmurs, and Jon's face flushes hot. He drapes his arm over his eyes, trying to remember how to breathe, but an instant later Jango grabs his wrist, pulls it down, and says warningly, “No, let me see.”

Jon shivers all over, not able to resist. Not able to do anything beneath the press of Jango's gaze, and he digs his fingers into the cloth of his tunics and tries desperately to stay still.

“Good Jedi,” Jango says after a moment, halfway to a tease, and Jon groans and brings a knee up, thumping Jango it the ribs. It makes him laugh, low and smug, and he wraps his hands around Jon's thighs, squeezing tight. Jon bites his lip hard to keep from making a sound, acutely aware of the open ramp just beyond them, and closes his eyes as Jango slides his hands up, tightening the material of Jon's pants over the curve of his cock. His mouth settles over a nipple, and Jon jerks, groans, feels the smirk that’s pressed into his skin.

“Bastard,” he manages, and Jango hums in agreement, rolling the bud with his tongue. He catches it between his teeth, gently, so gently, and Jon drops his head back against the decking with a hiss of frustration, hitching his hips up against the pressure of Jango's hands. As soon as he does, though, Jango lets go, and Jon groans, kicks him in the knee in protest and earns a laugh pressed against his skin.

“I thought you Jedi had a thing for control,” Jango says, amused, and Jon gives him the look that deserves, though he can't quite manage words. It makes Jango grin, teeth and threat and intent, and he lowers his head, kissing Jon's sternum. A moment later, teeth scrape the same spot, and Jon hisses, gets his hands in Jango's hair and hooks a leg over his thigh, grinding his cock up against the weight of Jango's body. It makes Jango groan, and he presses sloppy, open-mouthed kisses against Jon's chest as he rolls his hips into Jon's, their covered cocks sliding together. It’s too much, too rough, but also not enough, and Jon drops his head back against the floor in frustration, tugs at Jango's short hair and tries to urge him on, but he doesn’t speed up, doesn’t shift, just keeps—

Keeps kissing Jon's scars. That’s what he’s doing. Every kiss is pressed to a different scar, each one is traced and catalogued before Jango moves on, and Jon gasps for breath, tries not to whine deep in his throat when Jango slides down a little further. There at hands at the button of his pants, a tug, and Jango nips at his hipbone, then says roughly, “Hips up.”

Jon obeys, letting Jango tug the pants down to his thighs, and the loss of Jango's weight makes him shiver, wanting to reach for him again.

“Shh,” Jango murmurs, and presses one more kiss to his stomach before he sits back, working Jon's pants down. Jon manages to gather a little bit of sense, a touch of reason beneath the overwhelming want, and he kicks his boots off as best he can, lets Jango drag his pants and underwear all the way off and toss them to the side. Jango doesn’t slide back up his body, but settles between his thighs, hands pressing his legs apart.

The first touch of his mouth is expected, but it still makes Jon jolt at the drag of teeth and tongue across twisted, scarred flesh, and he moans.

Jango doesn’t bother to hush him this time. With a groan, he sets his teeth against a ragged scar, presses his lips to it a moment later. A hand presses up between Jon's legs, knuckles skimming his balls, and Jon jerks, twists, tries to push down into the touch but can't get the leverage. Jango's fingers avoid his hard cock, trace over his balls and then back, maddeningly light. Jon feels dizzy with denied want, desperate in a way he normally isn't, and he hitches his hips up, rocks against empty air and gasps for breath. He’s too sensitive, strung too tight, and Jango sucks a mark into the inside of his thigh, high up, each pull of his mouth maddening pressure and just a twinge of pain.

“ _Jango_ ,” Jon manages, and Jango laughs, thumb rubbing hard against his perineum. The sudden jolt of sensation sparking across nerves wrenches a cry from Jon's throat, and he twists his fingers tighter in Jango's hair, pulls at him to get him to slide up. Jango ignores him, tongue smoothing over the mark he just left, thumb pressing in right behind Jon's balls until he groans and twitches and shivers under Jango.

“Look at you,” Jango says again, and then sits up entirely. Jon hisses a denial, grabbing for him, but Jango catches his wrists, hauls him up as well and then spills him over onto his front. Jon tries to push up, but immediately a heavy body covers his, pinning him to the decking, and he closes his eyes, frustration just as hot in his gut as the desire.

“Jango, please,” he manages.

“We’re getting there,” Jango says, low, and presses a kiss right behind his ear. Scrapes his teeth down the line of Jon's spine, then slants sideways, tongue dragging over another scar. He slides his hands down Jon's arms, a long, slow stroke, and presses them to Jon's where they rest on the decking, slotting their fingers together. The width of his hips pressed up between Jon's thighs is maddening, and Jon is naked but Jango is still halfway clothed, the scratch of the fabric against the sensitive bruises Jango just left enough to make Jon shiver.

Jango's teeth set against the edge of another scar, hooked and crooked, and he traces it with his mouth, then leaves another bruise beneath it, sucking hard on the skin until Jon gasps, kissing it gently and moving on. Slowly, grip tightening as he goes, he slides his hands up to grip Jon's biceps, then rolls his hips hard, thrusting down and rocking Jon's cock hard into the thin cloth beneath him. Jon groans, rocks back into the hardness of Jango's cock and then forward into decking, and it’s not enough but Jango's weight won't allow him more.

Slow, maddening, Jango moves to another ropy scar, like he isn't so desperately hard and pressed right up against Jon's ass. Jon digs his fingers into the metal, rocks back against his shaft, and feels the hitch of Jango's breath, the tightening of the fingers around his arms. Jango makes a low, aggravated sound, and nips at the bumps of Jon's spine. “Don’t make tie you up,” he warns.

Jon presses his forehead against the cool metal, a shiver running through him at the thought. Jango practically has him pinned already, but if he tied him down, Jon wouldn’t be able to do anything, and Jango would have both hands free, could do anything he wanted to him. And—ropes aren’t difficult to get out of, not for a Jedi and not for Jon in particular, but—

The idea of Jango tying him down is a hell of a lot more appealing than Jon ever would have thought.

“These look like lightsaber burns,” Jango murmurs against his skin, and kisses a pair of round, puckered scars near Jon's spine. “Fighting with your own kind?”

“Dark Jedi, trying to raid the first Temple,” Jon manages, and he _aches_ , cock so hard it almost physically hurts. He squirms, just a little, just testing Jango's weight, and Jango snorts and settles more fully on top of him, holding him still. When Jon makes a sound of frustration, Jango smirks against his back.

“Almost done,” Jango says, and sucks a mark into Jon's skin between the two burns. When Jon twitches, he lets go of one arm, slides a hand down his side instead, and says, “I'm going to fuck you.”

“This rotation?” Jon gets out, and the stroke of Jango's fingers along the inside of his thigh sends small, sharp shivers washing through him. “Or—”

Jango pushes up, and Jon groans, ready to throw something at him. It makes Jango laugh, and he sits back, then rolls Jon over again, pulling his leg across his lap so he stays kneeling between his thighs. Jon sprawls out on the cold plating, the ruins of his robe around him, and he’s hard, hard and dripping and aching with it.

“Yeah, this rotation,” Jango says, and he looks unbearably smug. “Unless you want me to hold off—ow!”

Jon feels no regret for kicking him in the thigh. “You’d best,” he says, and Jango snorts. He leans over, hands sweeping up Jon's body, and then leans in. Jon takes the kiss gladly, letting Jango tilt his head back, deepen it, press into his mouth until he’s wringing soft, breathless sounds from Jon's throat with every slow rock of his hips. When fingers splay across his stomach, slide down, Jon shifts, then moans when Jango's callused hand wraps tight around his cock. He thrusts up into the touch, but Jango shoves him back down and lets go, and Jon groans in frustration.

“You're teasing,” he says, and it would be closer to a complaint if it weren’t so breathless.

Jango snorts, kissing his cheek, and Jon tips his head so Jango can reach the scars there. No bites this time, just soft kisses pressed to each mark, and the last one is to the scar that edges over his lip. Jango gets his teeth on that one, pulls, then slants his mouth over Jon's, swallowing his low sound as Jango's fingers go back to his perineum. His thumb strokes the skin there for a moment, then digs in hard, and Jon jerks and shouts, spots of light swimming behind his eyes. His cock _aches_ , and for a second he thinks he could almost come just like that, without so much as a solid touch.

Jango must think so too. His touch lightens instantly, and Jon makes a sharp sound of frustration, lifting his head to find Jango watching him intently, like Jon's a mission to be executed. It shouldn’t be nearly as appealing as it is.

Light, lingering, Jango strokes the back of his finger’s up Jon's cock, doesn’t let him thrust up into it. Giving Jon a calculating glance, he smirks, then curls forward, falling over him on his hands and knees, and chuckles when Jon's hands grab his arms and pull. Instead of settling back down and letting Jon rut against him, he kisses him, too light, too soft, and then says, “How about you come with my fingers in you and my mouth on your dick, and _then_ I fuck you?”

Jon groans, thumping his head back, and shudders. He grips Jango's arms, trying to come up with a coherent response, and can't even begin to manage one. Nods, instead, and then drags him down, and Jango smirks into the kiss, tangles their tongues and strokes Jon's cock until he’s gasping, thrusting desperately into Jango's hand. Then, abruptly, he pulls away, slides down Jon's body. There's a moment of fumbling in his pockets, a quiet curse, and then the smell of bacta, and Jango's mouth drags over the curve of Jon's cock just as a slick finger presses against his hole.

Jon whimpers, grinds down, and Jango hums. Stubble scrapes along too-sensitive flesh as he turns his head, and with a gasp Jon jerks, not sure if he wants to get away or push into it. Before he can decide, Jango's free hand fists around his cock, and a hot tongue drags across the head, lapping at the precum there. It sends heat cascading up Jon's spine, makes him twist his fingers into Jango's hair and hang on as Jango's tongue teases him, quick licks and open-mouthed kisses. Then, quick, Jango seals his lips over the head and swallows Jon down, just as two fingers shove into him.

Jon shouts, jerking. He thrusts into Jango's mouth, back onto his fingers as they curl and stroke inside him, and gasps desperately. He wants to curl up and just _feel_ , wants to ride the stretch inside him and push deep into the wet heat of Jango's mouth, but he can't do both at once, can't think which he wants, and he throws his head back as Jango's mouth sides down farther, as he swallows around Jon's cock and then spreads his fingers, stretching and stroking.

“Jango,” Jon manages, forces his fingers to unclench from Jango's hair before he hurts him. Grabs for his shoulders instead, the back of his neck, tries not to thrust into his mouth without permission, but it’s _hard_ , and he twists, grinds back as Jango's fingers press in all the way to the knuckle. It’s a sharp stretch as he spreads them, then curls them, pressing down hard against sensitive muscle. His thumb hooks up against Jon's perineum, digs in, and a broken cry shudders out of Jon's throat.

Pulling back, Jango chuckles, smug, and dips his head down, teasing the base of Jon's cock, then catching his balls, rolling them in his mouth until Jon is whining high in his throat, the gut-punch pleasure too dark, too wrenching, too much. He hooks a leg around Jango's back, rocks back on his fingers again, trying to take them deeper, and with a low sound Jango gets his mouth around his cock again, slips a third finger into Jon's hole and takes Jon right into his throat.

The gutted sound wrenches from Jon, and he shudders, goes still. He’s about to come, and the feeling has _teeth_ , sharp in his spine, building and growing until Jon can't even breathe around it. He closes his eyes, digging his fingers into Jango's skin, and feels Jango stroke inside him, fingers curled to graze his prostate. It sends sparks of lightning through Jon's nerves, and he groans, tugs desperately. Carefully, Jango shifts, pulling up, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks, and Jon gasps a warning, half a second too late. Jango's thumb digs into his taint, his fingers jab into the nerves inside him, and the very edge of his teeth scrape Jon's shaft.

It’s overwhelming, _wrenches_ , and Jon comes like he’s been winded by it, so much so that he can’t even make a sound. He shudders through it, gasping, every muscle locked, and Jango doesn’t pull off, keeps sucking, keeps his mouth sealed around Jon's cock as he comes. It’s too hot, too much, and Jon has only barely started to come down when the heat starts rising again, prickles of oversensitivity twisting through him. He squirms, but it’s good, sharp and right on the border where pleasure slides into pain, and he clenches down on Jango's fingers, drags his mouth closer as he rolls Jon's softening shaft with his tongue.

Finally, slowly, Jango pulls off, pressing one last kiss to Jon's cock, then easing his fingers out of him. Jon can't even move, every limb leaden, head spinning, but when Jango slides up his body to cover him, he takes Jango's slow, deep kiss gladly. There's the taste of himself on Jango's tongue, and Jon sighs into his mouth, feels Jango fumbling between them and reaches down instead, clumsy fingers undoing Jango's pants the rest of the way and pushing at them futilely.

“Still want this?” Jango asks roughly, and he’s breathing hard, rough. Even as he asks, he hitches his pants down around his thighs like he can't bear to pull away long enough for more than that.

“Please,” Jon says, wrapping his arms around Jango's neck, and the bump of Jango's cock against his stretched hole makes him shiver. He’s oversensitive, dazed, but Jango is as hard and hot, shoves into him desperately. Jon grunts, stomach twisting as heat cuts through him, sharp as knives. Jango is big, and he’s barely slick enough, the drag of skin inside him too much, too soon. He twists, squirms, but Jango makes a wounded sound in his throat and grabs his hips, holding him in place as he fucks into him, a long, hard thrust to seat himself fully.

For a moment, he just rests there, breathing hard, curled over Jon in the humid night air. He grunts, then presses his forehead to Jon's chest, fingers digging into his hips. His hot breath fans Jon's skin, and Jon tips his head back, breathes carefully through the twisted sort of pleasure, and tangles his fingers in Jango's hair, stroking gently.

Slowly, gently, Jango slides a hand between them, cups Jon's spent cock, and Jon whimpers at the jagged jolt of sensations that races over raw nerves. He twists, not sure he wants to pull away, and Jango huffs out an almost soundless laugh. He kisses Jon's chest, then rocks his hips forward, still cradling Jon's soft cock, and Jon cries out, fingers scrabbling at his back. Jango doesn’t let up, doesn’t shift his hand. He thrusts, drags out long and slow and then drives himself home with a bruising thrust. His hand drops from Jon's hip to hook around his knee, and he shoves it up and open wide, shoves in deeper until Jon is practically sobbing with it, too hot, too tight, prickles building and building into a blazing sort of sensation that eats through him.

Jango grunts, shoves his leg up higher, hand locking around his thigh. Right over a bruise, and Jon yelps, twists, gasps wetly as Jango's cock pushes even deeper, too thick and hard right at the center of him. He twists, claws at Jango's back, wants to get away and never wants to move at the same time, and Jango pins him in place and fucks Jon without quarter, punishing thrusts that don’t even give Jon the space to breathe. He gasps against Jon's chest, wordless sounds breaking from him, jerks—

Jon is all but crying with the pure, overwhelming weight of _sensation_ when Jango collapses over him with a groan, body tensing. He rocks in, in deeper, and Jon whines as he feels Jango come, clutches at him. Jango strokes his cock, and he whimpers, twitches, shivers all over. It feels like coming even if he never got hard again, a sharp _jerk_ low in his gut that leaves him gasping.

“So good, _kriff_ ,” Jango gets out, and heaves himself up. The drag of his cock pulling out is almost too much after everything, and Jon wants to wrench away, curl in on himself, but before he can Jango flops down on his chest with a huff. He stares down at Jon, and Jon feels dazed, wrecked, and he’s slick inside, so oversensitive he feels one touch away from breaking, and he wants to hide his face.

“Hey,” Jango says gruffly, and his weight settles on top of Jon again, elbows braced on either side of his head. A hand slides into Jon's hair, holding him in place, and Jango kisses him slowly, gently, lightly enough that it eases the shivery sort of desperation Jon is feeling rather than adding to it. With a grateful sound, he lets himself relax a little, hooking his hands over Jango's back and focusing on the slow, steady stroke of his hand down Jon's side.

Jon's dizzy, his head swimming, but he breathes out, lets his head fall back, and closes his eyes. The shivery high is still riding him, and when Jango pulls away, slides a hand around his thigh, he spreads them agreeably.

There's a quiet snort, a kiss against one of the bruises on his thighs. “No more,” Jango says, and his fingers press against Jon's hole, rubbing away a little of the wetness that’s trickling out of him. “You’re loopy, Jedi.”

Jon doesn’t even try to argue. He just grunts, and when Jango hooks an arm around his waist, he does his best to move with it and stand. Jango has to take most of his weight, but he doesn’t complain, doesn’t hesitate. Half-carrying Jon, he hauls him up into the ship, then heaves back a panel and topples Jon onto a narrow little mattress. Jon groans, but shifts, and with a huff of amusement, Jango strips off his boots and pants and hauls himself in beside him. It’s definitely not a space meant for two grown men, and Jon twists, Jango shuffles beside him, and they finally flop down with Jon on his stomach, Jango stretched over his back more than lying on the bunk.

Fingers skim Jon's side again, and Jango presses a kiss to one of his scars. “Hurt?” he asks.

Jon shakes his head, grasping lazily for words. “Good,” he manages, and shivers a little, nerves still humming pleasantly. “Very good.”

Jango's smirk is wholly smug, but given the state of Jon's brain, probably deserved. “I’ll give you breakfast rations in bed if you stick around,” he says, and slides the panel closed.

“Gentleman,” Jon mutters, and Jango chuckles against his shoulder, lazy and easygoing with orgasm, and wraps his arms around him in the darkness.


	6. Chapter 6

Jango wakes slowly, sticky with sweat but not entirely put out about it. The air is humid to the point of being wet, the body beneath him sleep-warm and lax in his arms, and Jango presses his nose into shoulder-length black hair, breathes out low and slow and satisfied. It’s been a hell of a long time since he tumbled someone, and there's something particularly satisfying about leaving a bed partner incoherent and fucked stupid.

Something even more satisfying about doing that to a Jedi who pretty much wiped the floor with a Sith war-beast, too.

Jango hums, thinking of the fight. Thinking about the clean sweep of Jon's lightsaber as it beheaded the beast, and he’s not normally one to appreciate a Jedi's fancy weapon, but that was a good blow. That was a good _fight_ , and he kisses the closest scar, the mark he left beside it. Jon's covered in his marks, skin coloring into bruises already, and it leaves Jango feeling a little smug to know that Jon didn’t— _couldn’t_ —heal all of these marks the way he did the wounds in the fight.

Deliberately, he brushes Jon's hair aside, then sets his teeth to the nape of his neck, biting down lightly. Beneath him, there's a twitch, a hitching breath, and Jon shifts. He’s hemmed in by the narrowness of the bunk, though, by the weight and width of Jango's body, and Jango holds him in place, slides his hands down to grip Jon's hips. It makes Jon huff, just a little, and he turns his head, looking up at Jango with pale eyes. The scar from the vornskr slants across his cheekbone, up towards his hair, and—

Vornskrs are meant to hunt Jedi. They're supposed to kill and eat Force-sensitives. Jon hardly blinked when it came for him, defeated it easily, and Jango breathes in, thinks of that low, challenging _Are you, Mandalorian?_ and has to breathe out through the curl of heat deep in his gut.

Thinks of the way Jon clutched at him, and trembled, and gasped, and presses his mouth against Jon's nape, biting lightly.

“Good morning to you, too,” Jon says, gratifyingly rough, and reaches a hand up and back, hooking his fingers around Jango's thigh. When Jango sucks hard at the flesh in his mouth, rolling it between his teeth, Jon gasps, shivering, and Jango smirks against his skin.

“Best morning,” he murmurs, and he’s already half-hard, rocks his shaft against Jon's ass slowly, teasingly. The fingers around his leg spasm tighter, and Jon tries to hitch his legs farther apart but can't, trapped by the narrow bunk.

“Thought you promised me breakfast rations,” he manages, as Jango shifts his attention down an inch and sets to making another mark. If the Jedi puts his hair up, everyone who looks at him is going to know that he got fucked within an inch of his life, and Jango really, really hopes he does.

“What? I'm giving you more, aren’t I?” Jango asks, and deliberately slides his cock between Jon's thighs, bumping up against his balls. It makes Jon gasp, makes him shiver all over, and Jango chuckles. The hand on his thigh slips off, turns, swats him, and the chuckle turns into a rough laugh as Jango lifts his head.

“You weren’t complaining about what I gave you last night, Jedi,” he says, and rocks forward. Jon's hard, too; Jango slides his cock against Jon's, small, short thrusts that have Jon squirming, and Jango reaches out, sliding a hand under the pillow and then the mattress to find the tube of slick he hides there.

There's a low, ragged sound, too breathless for a whine. It makes Jango press in a little tighter, hold Jon down just a little more with the weight of his body, and Jon settles with a shiver.

“Not too much,” he says, rough. “I can’t—not yet—”

That _yet_ is promising. Jango's fond of seeing how much a partner can take, pushing them right up to the edge of too much, and if he can corner Jon somewhere with an actual bed, somewhere with Boba thoroughly distracted and out of the way, he wants to try it with Jon. Maybe toys, or maybe just tying him up and seeing how many times he can wring an orgasm out of him before he passes out. Jon was down for getting fucked while he was soft and oversensitive last night; maybe he’ll be up to taking that a little further.

For now, though, Jango is still sleep-lazy and impatient, wants the heat of Jon's body around his cock, those little sounds he made when Jango fingered him last night. With a grunt, he pushes up on one elbow, fumbling with the tube, and asks, “Good for me to fuck you?”

There's a soft, desperate sound, and Jon pulls at his thigh. “Yes,” he says, quick. “Please.”

“So polite, Jedi,” Jango says, like it doesn’t kick somewhere deep in his chest to hear this man beg for him. He gets the tube open, but squeezes too hard, practically dumps it right on Jon's ass. Even so, Jon jerks, shivers, and Jango grins. He leans over him, tangling his fingers in dark hair to pin Jon's head in place, and says, “How many fingers do you want?”

“Bastard,” Jon breathes, and closes his eyes. Turns his head, shifting enough to get an arm beneath himself, but doesn’t try to move. Just lies there as Jango rubs a finger around his slick hole, teasing at dipping it in, and then groans. “ _Jango_.”

“How many, Jedi,” Jango says mercilessly, and Jon hisses at him but hitches his hips up, spreads his legs as much as he can.

“Three,” he says finally. “I can take three, please—”

Jango gives him two, because he’s not _that_ much of a bastard. He smears the lube into him, presses it into his hole until Jon is shaking, twitching, and thinks of sliding something big and hefty into Jon, maybe a thick plug, and then rolling him over and making him sit squarely on it. Riding him, long and slow, not allowing him to touch. The image is too pretty, too tempting; Jango has to grit his teeth and tuck it away for another time, has to focus on the stretch and give of muscle around his fingers. Jango's worked almost all of the excess lube into him, and he’s shifting, squirming with it, incredibly slick around Jango's fingers as he finally adds a third.

“There we go,” Jango breathes against his ear, and Jon makes a short, bitten-off sound. Smirking, Jango presses his mouth right behind the shell of his ear, nips at the delicate skin there and ears himself a hiss that makes him grin. He presses his fingers in, all the way to the knuckle, curves them down as he drags them out, and gets a high, fractured moan, a shudder.

Impatient, so hard it’s difficult to think straight, Jango grips Jon's ass, spreading his cheeks, and lines his cock up. Presses in, feeling the muscle give easily, and Jon moans, low and shaky, as Jango slides all the way home.

“Shit,” Jango breathes, and has to close his eyes. Jon's obscenely slick, obscenely hot and tight around him, and he’s shivering just a little, small sounds that are almost muffled against the curve of his elbow breaking from his throat. A little concerned, Jango presses a hand to his ribs, braces his shoulder against the wall of the bunk and leans down, laying a kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Too sore?” he asks softly, leaving another kiss on the knobs of Jon's spine, on one of the marks he left earlier. Strokes gently, slowly over his side as Jon lies there, and keeps himself from moving with all the will he possesses.

“No,” Jon finally says, hoarse, and shifts. Jango lets himself curl down, getting his arms around Jon again, like when they woke up, and curses the small space. “It’s just. A lot.”

It’s been a while for him, Jango assumes. He hums, kissing Jon's shoulder blade, and lets him adjust, lets him ease back down a little. Keeps kissing skin, slow and open-mouthed and messy, until the trembling fades and Jon sighs, turning his head.

“Want to sit in my lap?” Jango asks. “Or stay like this?”

There's a pause, like Jon's brain is taking a second to process. Then, with a groan, he closes his eyes and says, “Lap.”

The top of the bunk’s tall enough to allow it, though Jon's going to have to be careful of his head. Jango makes a sound of agreement, then shifts up on his knees, an arm around Jon's waist to pull him up along with him. Jon moves slowly, carefully, but he lets Jango shift him without protest, slides back as Jango settles against the wall, and moans softly, throatily as he sinks back down on Jango's cock. Jango wraps his arms fully around him, stroking over his chest, and lets him sit there for a long, long moment, slick and tight around Jango's cock.

“There we go,” he manages after a minute, and the bunk is too narrow for Jon to get his knees on either side of Jango, so he’s sitting fully on Jango's dick, has no leverage of his own. When he squirms, Jango grins, hiding it against his shoulder, and slides a hand down past Jon's hard cock to run a finger around the rim of his stretched hole, teasing the edge of his own cock. “Going to ride me, Jedi?”

“Go to hell,” Jon rasps. He tries to lift himself up but can't, and settles again, shuddering, head tipped back.

Want is a heady pooling heat in the pit of Jango's stomach, but he’s in no hurry to move. Instead, he settles a little more comfortably, rubbing his hand over Jon's stomach, and hooks his chin over his shoulder. “Better?” he asks, only half-teasing.

The jerk of Jon's head is assurance enough, though his throat is working, his eyes closed. Jango watches his face as best he can, the lines of it sharp, arresting. He’s not too pretty, for a Jedi, and Jango maybe appreciates that more than he should. Appreciates the spiderweb of scars, the tracery of old wounds that curls up his body, the lean muscle of him.

Wrapping his arms around Jon, Jango tugs him back until he’s leaning fully against Jango's chest, feels the hitching gasp he gives as Jango's cock shifts. He presses another kiss to Jon's hair, giving it a moment, and then shifts slowly, getting one knee up and bracing his foot where the wall and bunk meet. It’s not a lot of leverage, but he rolls his hips up, a small, slow thrust that drags a moan from Jon's throat, and kisses the scar from the vornskr again. Keeps moving, keeps that slow, rocking slide inside Jon's body, keeping his arms tight around him.

There's no protest, not even an attempt to speed things up and finish quickly. Jon moves with him as much as he can, takes each thrust, the stroke of Jango's hands across his scarred skin. The clutch of him around Jango's cock is almost too much, but Jango breathes, and slides up into him as deep as he can go, again and again, until Jon is clutching at his arms and making sharp, breathless little noises, the heat winding higher. Jango doesn’t touch his cock, doesn’t even try to get him off, even if he wants to feel Jon come when he’s buried deep. Just fucks him slowly, steadily, letting his own pleasure build each time he bottoms out.

“Jango,” Jon manages, and his voice cracks. He clutches at Jango's hands, shoves back as much as he can, and Jango huffs a laugh, leaning back a little more, changing the angle. Jon's next sound is a fractured cry, and he shudders, jerks. Jango holds him firmly, doesn’t let him squirm down further, just pins Jon to his chest and slides his cock over that same spot, never letting up the pressure. Jon twitches in his arms, voice breaking on a curse, and he grabs at Jango's hips, pulls desperately.

The bunk around them creaks, and the blanket ripples. Jango pauses, eyeing it, and Jon gasps and tugs at his wrists. Testing, Jango gives another slow, rocking thrust, and smirks a little as the tube of slick goes rolling across the mattress.

“’M I fucking you stupid, Jedi?” he asks, a little too breathless to make it a convincing taunt. Slides out, then back in, never far enough to take the pressure off Jon's prostate, and feels his gasping shudder. Jon turns his head, burying his face against the side of Jango's head, and he’s whining, little sounds breaking from him with every breath. There's another creak of metal hit by an invisible force, and Jango laughs, ragged. He’s never _actually_ seen a Jedi lose control, never seen one so overwhelmed their power broke loose, but he likes it. He wants to make it happen again.

“Jango,” Jon says, hitching, and Jango _really_ can't breathe. He presses an open-mouthed kiss to Jon's cheek, then reaches down with one hand, wraps a fist around his cock, and rides Jon's low cry, the jerk and clench of his body. Keeps his slow thrusts, not able to manage much more, and rocks Jon on his cock as he strokes him. Jon is twisting, squirming, trying to shove up into Jango's hand but not able to manage it, and Jango tightens his fist, thrusts deep and pins Jon there as he twists his hand and drags it up sharply.

With a choking, almost soundless cry, Jon comes, spilling hot across Jango's hand, his own thighs. Jango moans at the feel of it, at Jon clenching tight and desperate around his cock, and braces himself there, trying to breathe as Jon comes down. He wants to shove Jon forward, topple him back to the mattress and fuck him with abandon, but after last night Jon's probably too sensitive, too sore. With a groan, he thumps his head back against the wall, then gets his hands under Jon's thighs and lifts him off his cock as gently as he’s able.

He can come all over Jon's back, all over those scars. It won't take much, he thinks, but then Jon is shifting, twisting around in the narrow space, and he collapses down on his belly between Jango's thighs. Jango gasps at the first graze of his mouth, hot and lazy, over his cock, and grabs Jon's hair instinctively.

“We started something last night,” Jon says, ragged, and kisses the base of Jango's cock, just a flicker of tongue washing heat up his spine. “Can I finish it?”

“ _Kriff_ ,” Jango breathes, and tangles his other hand in Jon's hair, too. “I’m going to karking fuck your throat if you get your mouth on my dick right now.”

“Good,” Jon says, and before Jango can even process that he’s got his mouth over the head, is sinking down to swallow it entirely.

Jango _shouts,_ the feeling hot and wet and overwhelming. He wrenches Jon's head down, thrusts up, but Jon takes it, lets Jango slide deep into his throat. Jango curses, feels fingers on his balls and hitches his hips up, letting them explore as he fucks into Jon's mouth. There’s nothing calculated about it, nothing deliberate; he can't think, can't do anything but _want_ , and _take_ , and Jon sucks on his cock, rolls his tongue against the shaft, grazes it with his teeth as it slides down his throat, and Jango gasps, thumping his head back against the wall. A finger presses at his hole, and Jango groans, spreads his legs as best he can and lets Jon press into him, curl his finger and stroke right over his prostate as he swallows, and it’s enough. Jango pins his head in place and comes, not even able to give a warning.

Slowly, gently, Jon draws off while Jango is still trying to make his brain work. He doesn’t pull away, but rests his head on Jango's thigh, those pale eyes staring up at him, and Jango loosens his grip, strokes his fingers through dark hair and tries to remember how to speak.

“Shit, Jedi,” he finally manages, and Jon laughs, voice fucked raw, expression at ease. Jango can't resist the urge to press his thumb to that red mouth, and Jon kisses it, catches it between his teeth for just a moment. Stroking his hair back, Jango just looks at him for a second, and then says, “You always lose control when someone fucks you?”

Jon pauses, eyes on Jango's face like he’s wary of his reaction. After a few beats of not finding what he’s looking for, though, he says, “Sometimes. When it’s good.”

Jango snorts, then tugs at him, and Jon obediently rises up, lets Jango pull him between his legs, right up against him, so he can kiss him. It’s slow, lazy, entirely without intent, and Jon makes a low, pleased sound, settling against Jango's chest.

“You sure know how to feed my ego,” he says, sliding a hand down Jon's back.

“Hoping for a repeat, if I flatter you enough,” Jon says, the faintest curl of his mouth. Jango kisses it because he can, thinks again of sliding a plug into Jon, so big it’s work for him to take it, and then sitting down on his cock and riding him—

With a gasp, Jon drags his mouth away, shuddering, eyes falling closed. “ _Jango_ ,” he says, ragged protest, and Jango can't help it. He laughs, dragging Jon back in for another kiss, another, another.

“You look into other people’s heads, you get what you deserve,” he says mercilessly. “Like that idea?”

“Too much,” Jon says roughly, and Jango snorts, sliding a hand back to curl over his ass. He’s still slick inside, still stretched, and Jango brushes a thumb over his hole, then pulls away.

“Some other time,” he promises. “That’s a project that’ll take a whole night, and I doubt Boba will be distracted that long.”

With a huff of amusement, Jon sinks back on his knees, stealing one last kiss before he goes. A faint grimace crosses his face as he shifts, just a touch of discomfort, but he doesn’t seem concerned about it as he asks, “Can I borrow your fresher?”

“Think I can get the bunk open, after all the banging you did?” Jango counters, and chuckles at the chagrin that crosses Jon's face. He shoves at the panel, and after a moment it gives, sliding down. Jon slips out of the bunk, moving gingerly, and Jango jerks his chin at the tiny fresher tucked away behind one of the weapons systems. “I’ll get you a shirt,” he offers, because Jon's is still very obviously in shreds on the decking, and Jon laughs a little, ducking his head to hide it.

“Appreciated,” he says with humor, and Jango watches him walk away, studying his body in the morning sunlight. He didn’t get a chance to see the whole picture last night, even if he finally got to explore most of those scars, and it’s a nice one. Whipcord strength toned with experience, and for a moment it’s all too tempting to try and join him in the fresher, even if Jango knows, intellectually, that it’s even smaller than the bunk.

“Later,” Jon says, over his shoulder, and Jango gets a foreign-sharp flash of an image not of his own brain’s making, Jon hitched up against a wall beneath a spray of water, Jango fucking him brutally against the tile. It’s so sudden it almost makes Jango trip in the process of sliding out of bed, and he curses viciously, catches himself, then grabs a boot and throws it after the maddening Jedi bastard. It bounces off the edge of the fresher as Jon ducks inside, and Jango swears he can hear Jon laughing as he turns the sonics on.

It’s not the worst thing that could happen to him, getting laughed at by a Jedi, and that realization alone is a hell of a surprise.

Jon has four messages from Knol waiting for him when he checks his comm, none of which he feels even remotely prepared to deal with. There are no messages from Han, though, despite Jon telling him to comm if he needed anything or wanted anything at all. It’s not exactly comforting, and Jon frowns a little, rubbing his thumb against the edge of the device. He wonders, for a moment, if he should comm Han first, but maybe that’s intrusive, or controlling. Jon's never dealt kids in any extended sort of way, and he has no idea what the rules are here.

Before he can dwell on it too deeply, there's the scuff of a boot behind him, deliberate warning. A pair of arms slide around his waist, and there's a kiss pressed to the curve of his shoulder. Jon can't help but lean back into the press of Jango's body, even in the muggy heat, and Jango hums, kissing his throat as his hands flatten over Jon's stomach.

“Leaving?” he asks, thumb tracing over Jon's ribs, and Jon _wants_ , wants to turn and push him down and have him again, right out in the open.

“I need to check on Han,” he says, hoarse, and can feel Jango's smirk at the roughness of his voice. For a long moment, Jango doesn’t move, but then he sighs and shifts back. When Jon turns, a hand grabs the edges of his cloak, all he’s wearing beside his pants, and Jango hauls him forward. Kisses him, hard but not aggressive, like he’s trying to prove a point, and Jon feels a flicker of amusement. He curls his arms around Jango's shoulders, leans into it and deeps the kiss, eases it, settles there with Jango's mouth on his, slow and careful kisses in the morning light.

“Kriff,” Jango mutters as they break apart, and his hands have slid down to Jon's hips, gripping tightly. He looks Jon over for a long moment, and it’s like a tangible touch, hot enough to steal Jon's breath. Then, determinedly, Jango closes his eyes, takes a breath, and says, “I should find whatever nest of trouble Boba's stuffed himself into.”

“Gleefully,” Jon observes, because from what he’s seen of Boba, the sheer act of getting into trouble is half the fun.

Jango's sigh is aggrieved and tired, and it makes Jon laugh a little. Jango smiles, too, watching him, and then tips his head. “Found your boots?”

“Eventually,” Jon says, unbothered, and slips out of Jango's hold to retrieve them and pull them on. The shreds of his tunics he leaves where they died, and simply wraps himself more tightly in his cloak. He has another set he’s been meaning to patch, but they’ll do until he can ask Nico to get him another pair. Assuming Nico hasn’t started a diplomatic incident by stabbing the Count of Serenno, which is…probably a big assumption to make, honestly.

When he rises to his feet, Jango is watching him with a faint frown, mouth curled down. Jon, in the process of pulling his hood up, raises a brow at him, and Jango snorts and looks away, starting down the ramp.

“You said you don’t go to Coruscant,” he says, as Jon falls into step with him. When Jon casts him a curious sideways look, wondering at the shift in topic, he keeps his eyes fixed ahead of them and says, “Not like most Jedi.”

Jon hums, sliding his hands into his sleeves. “My Master is a spy,” he says, “and a scholar. She looks for the secrets of the old temples, and all the lost history. I was meant to do the same thing, here in the Outer Rim and the Unknown Regions.”

“But instead you run around hunting old Sith war-beasts and adopting criminals,” Jango says, but it’s not quite as derisive as he probably means it to be.

Jon looks ahead of them, at where the bend of the path hides the town. “I was never a good student,” he says quietly, and—he knows he’s a disappointment, knows what Dark Woman wanted him to be and do, but he won't leave the Outer Rim. There are too many forgotten people here, too many things he can do to help that no one else will. And maybe it doesn’t make any difference in the long run, but it makes a difference to the people Jon saves, and he’s content with that.

There's a quiet grunt from beside him. “Coruscant is overrated,” Jango says gruffly. “Better to keep away from it.”

Jon has no idea what he would do with a place like that. Nar Shaddaa is bad enough, full of souls and suffering, and it strains Jon's senses every time he’s there, leaves him with a headache and the feeling of being pulled in a hundred thousand ways at any given moment. Too many people need help, and the Force urges him towards all of them.

“I would like to see the main Temple,” he says, soft. It’s not a thought he’s voiced to anyone, even Knol or Fay or Nico, but—true. “I've heard stories, and—it’s meant to be home for the Jedi.”

There's a long, long moment of silence, and then Jango takes a rough breath. “Home’s wherever you make it,” he says shortly. “Mine was the True Mandalorians. Now it’s _Slave I_.”

But Jon can feel the truth of what he’s saying. “Now it’s Boba,” he corrects quietly, and Jango looks away, off into the swamp.

“He’s my legacy,” he says, like that’s any sort of denial. It makes Jon smile, just a bit, but he lets the subject rest.

“Would it help you to know,” he says softly, “that the Jedi who led the attack on Galidraan left the Order afterwards?”

For a moment, he thinks he’s made a mistake. Jango is tense, and there's a fury bubbling up in him, something vicious and dark. But he marshals it, hangs on to his temper, and asks roughly, “Yeah?”

Jon inclines his head, and—there's a flicker of something, like certainty, in his chest. This is the right thing to do, and he the instinct is purely the Force bleeding through. “Dooku started questioning the wisdom of the Council in the aftermath—”

There's a sound, raw, _furious,_ and then a hand closes hard around Jon's arm. It’s so sudden that Jon can't help his jerk, the reflexive surge of fear that cracks through his chest. He ducks, remembered motion more than actual instinct, but half an instant later his back hits the wooden wall of the first building in the town.

“ _Dooku_?” Jango snarls, right in his face. “ _Count Dooku_ was the Jedi leader on Galidraan?”

It takes a moment for Jon to get his heartrate under control, to breathe through too many memories. “Yes,” he finally says. “He was the Master in charge of the strike team.”

Jango stares at him, flat, _furious_. Rage curls like the wash of a nova around him, and Jon can feel the crystallization of understanding, realization, _wrath_.

“Dooku,” he repeats, and his next breath shudders out of his chest. Jon watches his face, the lines of it, the grief that rises, half-choked by anger, and can't help but reach out.

“Yes,” he repeats. “Jango?”

Jango closes his eyes, steps forward. He practically folds into Jon, shuddering breaths and a fine tremor of rage as his head comes to rest on Jon's shoulder, and he says, sharp-edged, “Count Dooku is a fracking _Sith_.”

Of all the things Jon expected him to say, that doesn’t even come _close_.

“ _What_?” he says.

Jango lifts his head, and he’s wearing a death’s-head grin, all teeth and violence. “The kriffing bastard left that out when he hired me,” he says. “He _forgot to mention_ that he was the one who murdered my men. And he hired me to help kill the Jedi. All the Jedi.”

Jon loses all of his breath, all of his voice. He stares at Jango, frozen as the words slowly, slowly sink in, and Jango _laughs_. There's nothing of amusement in it.

“I'm going to kill him,” he says, too calm for the look in his eyes. “If you try to stop me, I’ll kill you too.”

But his hands are tight on Jon's waist, hanging on like he’s about to fall through solid ground, and something turns over in Jon's chest. Slowly, gently, he curls his hands around Jango's broad back, pressing his fingers against the scars there, and says, “Jango, he’s a Sith. I'm going to help you, not stop you.”

The thought settles, just like that. The pull of the Force that led him to this little moon shifts away, and if Jon follows it, he’s entirely sure that it will lead him right to Dooku.

“I don’t need help to kill a Force-user,” Jango says harshly, but he’s not pulling away. Instead, his hand slides up Jon's side, digs hard into his ribs, but it’s an anchor, not an attempt to hurt. Jon strokes a light touch over his back, not protesting, and lets Jango find his equilibrium in the silence for a long moment.

“No,” Jon says finally, softly, into the space between them. “But hunting with a partner is more interesting than hunting alone.”

“Speaking from experience?” Jango asks roughly, and lifts his head, studying Jon's face with narrowed eyes. “I just told you I was part of a plan to murder the Jedi.”

“You did,” Jon says calmly, and feels the certainty deep in his chest. “But if anyone is owed revenge for what happened on Galidraan, it’s you.”

Jango's mouth twists, but his gaze doesn’t waver. “The Jedi gave me to the governor of Galidraan, and he sold me into slavery.”

Jon freezes. For a moment he can't even breathe, and the lash of fury is almost a surprise. His hands go tight on Jango's back, and he has to jerk his head away and close his eyes before he can lose control, break something, break _someone_. For a long, long minute, he struggles with the emotion, trying not to let it overwhelm him, and then says, “Another name to add to the list, along with Dooku.”

A hand curls in his hair, fists tight. Jango pulls his head back just a little, and Jon lets him, meets his dark eyes steadily. Frowning, Jango searches his face, and then says, as if he can't believe the words, “You mean that.”

“Of course,” Jon says, and Jango laughs, rough and wrathful, and leans in. He pins Jon to the wall and kisses him again, brutal and furious, but—

There's a thread of hope rising in his chest, something as bright and sharp and angry as a bared blade, and Jon wraps his arms around him and doesn’t let go.


End file.
